When Thou Weep'st, My Life's Blood Doth Decay
by MlleClaudine
Summary: Seventh in my series of Cophine stories exploring their relationship in the moments and scenes that take place once the cameras stop rolling. Mostly fluff, though their determinedly upbeat playfulness is tempered by their awareness of just how rapidly Cosima's disease is progressing. Starts after "Break, Blow, Burn..." and ends shortly before Cosima's collapse in s02e08.
1. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 1

"Merde!"

Hastily tearing off a paper towel to stanch the blood, I apply pressure for a moment, then inspect the damage. Superficial, thank goodness, though all the more painful for it: a stinging, throbbing, freely bleeding half-moon-shaped gouge at the side of my right index finger, along with a sliver sheared off from my nail.

I sigh, then shrug, taking a large sip of wine before washing and bandaging the wound and pulling a nitrile glove over it. At least only the last slice of potato is contaminated, tinged pink along one edge; I toss it into the trash and set the mandoline in the sink for later dissassembly and cleaning.

Stacking the slices, I trim them into neat identically sized rectangles, then arrange them like playing cards on a sheet pan lined with parchment and coated with melted butter. I brush them with more butter and season them liberally with salt and white pepper. Covering them with another piece of parchment, I wrap the whole pan tightly in foil and slide it into the upper oven to roast.

As I rinse and pat dry the piles of chanterelles, shiitakes and oyster mushrooms, then painstakingly slice them all thinly and evenly, I sing along to the song playing over the sound system: _"Il semble que quelqu'un ait convoqué l'espoir. Les rues sont des jardins, je danse sur les trottoirs..."_

Finally done with the mushrooms, I check on the potatoes, carefully letting the steam escape before unwrapping the pan completely and verifying that they are tender and nearly translucent.

In a large sauté pan, I heat butter over medium-high, swirling the pan continuously until the milk solids are a deep brown; inhaling, I nearly swoon at the rich, nutty aroma. Cooking the mushrooms in the beurre noisette until all their liquid has evaporated, I add salt, a finely chopped shallot and some chives, stir for a minute or so, then take the pan off the burner.

Laying two slices of potato on a sheet pan, I cover each with a thick layer of the mushroom mixture, then another slice of potato, and so on until I have five layers in all, ending with a final potato layer. Placing another sheet pan on top, I weight it with a pile of cookbooks to compress the little lasagnas so they will hold their shape, placing the whole contrivance into the oven at its lowest setting.

I check that the nage-butter sauce is keeping warm at a very low simmer on its induction burner, then turn my attention to the kabocha squash roasting in the lower oven along with garlic, thyme and red pepper, all tossed in olive oil and salt. The thick slices of squash are fork-tender all the way through, the garlic cloves soft and fragrant in their skins, so I pull the baking dish to let everything cool on the counter.

Slender arms slide around me from behind. I revel for a moment in the press of the small warm body against my back. "Hello, chérie." Turning, I smile, cradling her face in my hands and kissing her gently.

Her lips are slightly chapped. "Hey, yourself. Something smells amazing. Besides you, I mean."

"Shameless flatterer. You must be hungry."

Cosima rests her head on my shoulder, nuzzling into the curve of my neck. "Starving. Had to be NPO for my labs this morning and then my PET/CT scan got delayed for a few hours, so I haven't had anything since dinner last night. Priya gave me some Oreos she had in her purse but eating them hurt too much, like swallowing razor blades."

Holding her tightly, I try not to let the pang gripping my heart overwhelm me, try not to think about how frail she feels in my embrace. "You should have soaked them in milk first. What did she think of your scans?" As a rad tech, Priya cannot officially, legally or ethically make a diagnosis, of course, but I am confident enough in her knowledge and experience to trust her opinion of the raw images.

"No real change either way. Harold hasn't managed to bust through yet, at least," she says of the olive-sized tumor in the submucosa straddling the antrum and pylorus at the lesser curvature of her stomach. Harold was one of the earliest mets to be identified. At first she had made a game of naming the individual tumors, until there were simply too many of them and the defiantly lighthearted game suddenly became too much of a grim chore.

"That's good," I say, mentally cursing Harold and his cohort, especially the tumors invading her esophagus and kidneys; among other things, their presence precludes the use of pred or cyclosporine to suppress her immune system. Catching sight of the ugly bruise spreading beneath the pressure bandage at the back of her hand, I frown. "Who was your infusion nurse? Not Kaleeta, surely?"

"Nope, Kaleeta was off; had a new one today. Told her my metacarpals were too mobile for a 22g but she tried twice anyway. Blew one vein and burred the catheter in another before she finally gave in and went to a 24g in the cephalic."

My teeth clench. "What was her name?"

"Nuh unh, not gonna tell you." Running her fingers through my hair, she caresses my scalp as though she were soothing a fractious cat. "You're not going on a rampage just because I happened to get stuck with a noob."

I rest my forehead against hers. Her touch is instantly calming, though I make a mental note to check the duty roster and have a word with that nurse. Several words. Several highly specific and very pointed words. "Fine." I sigh loudly, pretending to pout. "No rampage."

"Not everyone is lucky enough to have a personal physician who spent a summer moonlighting as a phlebotomist, you know."

Snorting a reluctant laugh, I shake my head. "Dinner will be ready in about half an hour. I hope you can wait that long."

She nods. "Perfect. I have to pee out the FDG, and anyway I want to take a shower. I can still smell Radiology all over me –- you know that, like, sterile clingy atmosphere? And it's always so damned cold in there."

It's always so damned cold for her everywhere, now. I kiss her softly.

Clasping my injured hand, she peers at the blood-soaked bandaid visible through the glove. "What's with the Michael Jackson look?"

I make a face. "That's what I get for using a mandoline without the blade guard."

"Ouch." Carefully she kisses the tip of my finger, then releases my hand. She gives me a crooked little smile. "All better?"

With that finger, I draw a line down her nose and let it rest for a moment against the fullness of her lower lip, smiling in return. "All better."

"Good. Be right back, babe."

"Take your time, chérie."

By now the squash is cool enough to handle. I scoop the bright orange flesh out of the rind and toss it into the Vitamix, along with roasted garlic that I squish out of each clove. Scraping in the oil and seasonings from the pan and pouring in some vegetable stock, I add a hefty pinch of salt and set the blender to soup mode, letting the powerful motor pulverize everything to velvety smoothness and then heat it to near boiling.

The jet-engine noise ends just in time for me to hear _Trouvons du temps/Pour l'impossible, pour l'inespéré, pour l'imprévisible/Et contre l'éphémère/Contre la cruauté première/Contre le marbre de nos tombes_...

Shuddering, I find my phone and change the playlist to one of Cosima's trance mixes, lowering the volume to a background burble. I check the red cabbage braising in a medium Dutch oven; feeling only a little guilty, I stir in some bacon fat from its container in the refrigerator. After tasting the cabbage for seasoning, I add a bit more cider vinegar, then take the pot off the heat.

I set two places on the wide granite bar and start to plate the food. The scent of her shower gel and a whiff of marijuana precede the sound of bare feet slapping softly on the floor. My heart turns over at the sight of her; without her usual bold eye makeup, she looks achingly young and vulnerable in her oversized maroon fleece bathrobe. I pour her a glass of wine as she perches on a barstool. "That was quick."

"Missed you too much to linger." Swirling her glass, she admires the wine's clear ruby color and sniffs appreciatively before taking a sip. "Nice. Barolo, isn't it?"

"Yes, similar to that Arborina we had at Via Allegro."

Tugging me close enough that I can feel the heat of the shower emanating from her in waves, she slides her hand behind my neck and pulls me down into a kiss. "Mmm. Tastes even better this way."

I smile against her lips, seeking with my tongue every trace of the wine. The bold tannins and sweet floral notes go surprisingly well with the faintly berry-like flavor of Blue Dream; idly I wonder if there is such a thing as wine pairings for weed.

Reluctantly breaking away, I ladle the soup into bowls, spiking each portion with a splash of balsamic vinegar and adding a quenelle of crème fraîche. Transferring a mushroom-potato lasagna to her plate and spooning some of the nage-butter sauce over and around it, I hand the plate to her with a flourish. "Et voilà, mademoiselle."

"Dude. This looks awesome." She takes a forkful of the lasagna, chews, then carefully swallows. "Tastes awesome, too."

Leaning toward her to capture her mouth again, I have to agree.

* * *

 _Next chapter: the Cophine version of Netflix and chilling..._


	2. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 2

"That's not anatomically possible."

Cosima snorts into her wineglass. "It's 3D hentai. How realistic do you think it should be?"

"Well, really, look at that. Unless she can unhinge her jaw like a snake, there is no way she could get it down her — are those _tentacles_?"

She had discovered recently that the long, wide mirror above the living room fireplace concealed an enormous UltraHD television recessed into the wall. Neither of us being interested in subscribing to the cable package the building offered, we had been using it mostly to watch movies streamed from her computer. Tonight she is giving me a survey tour of highlights from her rather more specialized video collection.

Aside from the huge screen displaying the fantastically improbable libidinous activities of animated humans and non-humans alike and the flames flickering and dancing in the fireplace, the only other illumination in the room comes from the corner where the Christmas tree that Cosima had insisted that we get holds pride of place; even though the holiday is well past, she refuses to let me take down the tree. Currently it wears so many strings of lights that the few carefully placed ornaments can hardly be seen through the multicolored glow. "I want one that looks like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting. If Norman Rockwell had painted totally pagan scenes, of course," she'd said. After a damp, snowy hour of tramping around the tree farm, she had finally decided on the six-foot-tall white spruce, whose rounded and almost perfectly symmetrical conical shape was dense with sweetly fragrant needles. She had been extraordinarily pleased to discover that the tree had come with a small resident spider, whom she promptly named Hubert. Worried that Hubert would starve from lack of prey, she had taken to catching bugs in the park for it to trap in its tiny wedge-shaped web.

As we snuggle on the sofa, I delight in the seamless fit of her body curving into mine. Her dreads caught up in a loose bun, she pillows her head on my shoulder; our arms wreathe about one another, our legs tangling loosely. Absently I rub her back. Her shoulder blades and ribs are all too evident even beneath the dense fleece of her robe. I gently coupage her whenever her now-perpetual coarse râles coalesce into a productive cough. Perhaps it is my imagination, but her coughing does seem to be somewhat less frequent and less forceful since she'd received the stem cell treatment last week.

Laughter quakes the slender form nestled in my embrace. "Tentacle porn has been around, like, forever. Here, this is probably one of the most famous Japanese illustrations from the early 1800s." She extends her arm to peck at her laptop, which sits open on the coffee table within easy reach; pausing the video, she quickly types in a search command to bring up an image in a separate window of a naked woman entwined with two octopuses, the larger of which is diligently applying its beak-like mouth in a highly intimate manner. Skillfully, it would seem, judging by the expression on the woman's face and the erotic languor of her body language that says clearly that the creatures' attentions are far from unwelcome.

I wonder fleetingly if octopuses have tongues. "Euh... where is its other leg?"

"What?"

"I only count seven legs. Where is the eighth one?"

Tipping up her head, Cosima kisses me, smiling against my lips. "Wherever you want it to be, babe. Doing whatever comprehensively filthy thing you want it to be doing."

A rush of heat floods through me at the glint in her eyes and the thoroughly naughty grin curling her mouth. And, I have to admit, at the thought of just what that hidden, muscular, highly prehensile appendage might be up to.

Shifting her so that she is leaning back against me and tucked securely between my legs, I slip my hand inside the loose wrap of her robe to draw random designs with my fingertips over taut silky skin. She taps her keyboard to unpause the video and then stretches out with a rumbling purr, reaching an arm up and behind her to tangle her fingers in my hair. "Mmm, Dr. Cormier. Something I can help you with?"

I press my lips to her temple, then ghost kisses over her cheek and along the curve of her smile. Nibbling farther down to reach the superbly soft and smooth area below her jawline, I distract her by cupping one breast through her robe with my free hand. "Perhaps."

She tries to sit up and turn over. Gently but firmly I clamp my arm across her, trapping her deliciously in place. Silently acquiescing, she relaxes, tipping back her head to loll decadently against my shoulder, her hips undulating subtly against mine, her breath and pulse becoming more rapid and shallow.

Slowly, I undo the tie of her robe, letting the thick fabric fall open and baring her body to the leisurely exploration of my hands. Letting them wander over her belly, I feel the turbulence of the deep muscles there, then tickle her sides to make her giggle. Stair-stepping up her ribs, I palm the sensitive swells of her breasts, cradling their soft weight and feeling her nipples tighten between my fingers as she presses into the slow caress. A small sound of pleasure wisps just within my hearing as I kiss my way down the graceful line of her neck.

"I need to taste you, chérie," I whisper in her ear.

She shivers. "Don't see anyone stopping you."

Carefully sliding out from beneath her, I settle her into a pile of cushions at one end of the sofa, push her robe off her shoulders, then kiss my way down her body until I am lying prone between her legs with her thighs draped over my shoulders. I am completely surrounded by soft skin, by the rich scent of her rising arousal, by the arresting sight of her ripe glistening sex already open and waiting for me. Spreading her legs even wider with the encouragement of my elbows, I paddle my fingertips in the wet, hot slickness, gently tracing the contours of her folds and circling just inside the whickering entrance of her cunt. She groans impatiently, the thrust and grind of her hips beckoning. Unable to resist, I press an infinitely soft kiss upon her distended and pulsing clit, feeling the shudder wringing through her as though her entire body were moaning in response.

Slipping my hands underneath her to cup and knead her buttocks, I enjoy the feeling of the powerful muscles bunching and churning at my touch. I place gossamer kisses at the bend of her knees, then kiss my way up the inside of each thigh, letting my hair trail over her skin.

Her arousal is thick and heavy and utterly intoxicating, coating the long slow drag of my tongue through her turgidly swollen folds. Bypassing her depths, I tease at the satiny promontory of her taint, pressing wriggling circling until she is gasping and squirming. Dipping deeper, I dance my tongue into her pouring cunt, savoring the clenching of her walls as I plunge and curl into her. Her hips flare as my mouth moves gently against her, with her, encompassing every taste, every scent, every sensation, cataloguing every fold, memorizing every color in the palette of her desire.

Eyes shut tight, she whimpers softly as she circles her pelvis to bring every possible surface of her sex to bear against the assiduous attentions of my mouth. My own hips grind into the sofa cushions, seeking relief from the unbearable tension thrumming through me.

Mouth watering at the taste of her, I suckle gently at the scarlet prominence of her clit, exulting in the helpless jerk of her body and the hoarse wordless cries that escape from her throat between the uneven rising and falling excursions of her chest. Licking along one side and then the other of the slippery little bundle, working the flat of my tongue across its straining shaft, I glory in the darkening pitch of her cries, the increasingly frantic flexing of the muscles in her abdomen, hips and legs, the clutching and clawing of blunt nails into my hair and scalp that tell me that she is so very close to rocketing out of control.

I trap her clit between my upper lip and the relentless lashing of my tongue and suck hard. She shrieks, her body first going rigid, then bucking and quaking with wracking convulsions. Greedily lapping at the wetness that floods my cheeks, my chin, soaking the loose tendrils of my hair, I urge her on with the goading of my mouth, drawing out every wave of release, never stopping until at last she shudders to a trembling halt.

Her legs slacken heavily on my shoulders, her fingers relaxing their painfully gnarling grip in my hair. I rest my head on her thigh and slip my hands free from under her, only too aware of the hunger keening in my own sex.

"Delphine," she croaks, panting, shaking and sheened with sweat.

Not for the first time, I think that she never looks lovelier than when shattered from the aftermath of passion. I smile, brushing a kiss just over the top of her mound. "Yes, Cosima?"

"Hold me?"

The rawness of her voice triggers in me the urge to weep. "Of course, chérie." Sliding her legs from my shoulders, I manage to find my feet, bending to give her a swift kiss. Carefully lying next to her on the sofa, I gather her closely, rolling so that her slight weight sprawls atop me. "Better?"

"Way."

My nipples are painfully tight and hard against hers. She settles her thigh between mine, lavishly painting my hip with her come and drawing a hitching gasp from me as firm muscle presses into my aching center. Craning her head upward for a kiss, her tongue gently seeks entrance. My lips part easily, my tongue coaxing hers to join it in a teasing, sliding dance, letting her taste herself all over my face and trace the shapes and textures of my mouth. I smile as she worries lightly at my lower lip with delicately edged teeth, then lets it go to rest her head in the curve of my shoulder.

Tenderly I press my lips to her forehead, taking in with my mouth the scent of her hair and the sharp salt of clean sweat. I listen to the gradual quieting of her breath, feel the slowing of her pulse. Warm lassitude creeps through my body as her slender form melds against mine, both of us yielding to the wonder evoked by the alchemy of our flesh.

" 's not fair," she murmurs.

"What's not fair?" Slowly I stroke the long planes of her back, feeling the shift and play of deep muscles beneath my palms.

Cosima sighs, a contented little sound; I shiver as her breath gusts over the sensitive skin at my throat. "You've gone and made me all boneless and now I can't move."

"Not even when I do this?" Letting my hands wander upward, I trail my fingertips along the curving sides of her breasts where they are most sensitive, making her moan. "Or this?" A sound in between a squeak and a whimper escapes from her as I glide one hand lower to play over the very base of her spine, provoking the involuntary thrust and grind of her hips.

"Shit!" Her eyes lock on mine, the pupils still hugely dilated. Light tremors tense her muscles, and she is starting to pant again.

"Mmhmm?" I slide my other hand between us to tease at her heat, provoking a strangled gasp.

"Fuck, forget I said anything." Kissing me ferociously for long, dizzying minutes, at last she relinquishes her plundering of my mouth and crawls downward, heading determinedly toward the insistent clamor of my need.

* * *

 _Next chapter: a little dab'll do ya..._


	3. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 3

"Oh, god, that feels good. Mmm, yeah, right there, just like that."

I smile, bending to kiss her, careful not to get shampoo in our mouths. Straightening, I resume rubbing the eucalyptus, tea tree and mint scented lather with the tips of my fingers between the neat rows of her dreads until her scalp squeaks.

When I abandon her scalp and start to massage shampoo through the lengths of the dreads themselves, her eyes open slowly, regarding me heavy-lidded. Sybaritic pleasure wars with indignation that I have dared to stop the caressing. It is an expression so unequivocally feline that I half expect her to extend claws and rake casually bloody stripes down my arm; grinning, I lean in to kiss her again.

This is one of the few arenas in which Cosima not only allows but positively welcomes my fussing over her. Much to her dismay, she had found lately that washing her hair by herself tired her out far too quickly: having to keep her arms raised for extended periods of time not only rapidly fatigued her muscles but also made it difficult for her to breathe. Since we tended to share my shower anyway, it did not require a lot of convincing for her to let me take over the painstaking process, which somewhat to my surprise we had both come to enjoy.

Working the diluted lather into her dreads, I squeeze them repeatedly by the handful as water cascades over her until every bit of shampoo has been thoroughly rinsed out.

I help her stand up from the teak bench that I'd positioned so that it is centered directly beneath the rainfall of the huge rectangular showerhead in the ceiling. Squirting a dollop of lemon-sage gel onto a pouf, I scrub her all over, then hand the pouf to her so she can return the favor.

Under the pretext of making sure all the soap is gone, I run my hands up and down her body, her skin slick as a seal's against mine. She kisses me with a smile, then at my invitation sits back down, swinging up her legs to settle her feet in my lap and leaning back to brace on her arms as I sit cross-legged facing her at the other end of the bench. Stroking the length of her legs, still strong despite her illness and weight loss, I delight in their sculptural definition, from the large muscle groups of her thighs and buttocks to the finely detailed striations of her calves and tendons. Capturing one small foot, which flutters briefly in my grasp like a captured wild bird, I knead it with soapy hands, knuckling my fist firmly into the arch and instep and working my thumbs into the ball and heel, paying special attention to the reflexology points that correspond to the lungs. By the time I start on her other foot, she is groaning with hedonistic abandon.

Plucking my razor from its caddy on the wall, I hold it up in mute query. Instantly her eyebrow cocks and she frowns. "Trying to tell me something?"

"Your skin is like silk," I reassure her, running my fingers along the inside of her calf. "I just want to. Let me?"

Still a little affronted, she finally nods and relaxes. Smiling to myself at her fit of pique, I reach for my conditioner, pouring out a generous handful and smearing it all over one leg. Up goes her eyebrow again. "Isn't that stuff like fifty bucks a bottle?"

In response, I glop more over her, coating her skin liberally. "And your point is?"

She rolls her eyes, but a corner of her mouth tugs upward.

Concentrating as I glide the razor slowly and carefully over every surface of each leg, keeping the blades perfectly parallel to her skin and lightening my touch at her ankles and knees, I finish at last. Already satiny before, her legs are now so impossibly smooth my fingers slide nearly frictionlessly as I trail them up to tease at the neatly trimmed curls at the junction of her thighs. Suddenly I have an idea, accompanied by a mental image so vivid that I immediately know I have to enact it. I smile impudently as her breath quickens, whether because of the newly heightened sensitivity of her skin, or perhaps because she has already divined my intention — in either case, I find nothing but amusement and want in her eyes.

Standing, I kiss her lightly. "Don't move, chérie," I murmur into her ear, then step out of the shower enclosure.

The air is a slap of cold; instantly I am goose-fleshed. Thankful for the heated floor, dripping heedlessly onto the marble tiles, I rummage through a cabinet until I find a cache of brand-new razors and a small vial of almond oil. Shivering, I dash back to the shower and thankfully envelop myself in its steaming warmth, gratified to see that Cosima has in fact not moved.

Streams of water runnel over her upturned face and down her hair and the planes, valleys and slight curves of her tautly lean body. The sight of her is so powerfully appealing, it is all I can do not to simply fall to my knees and devour her.

I mentally shake myself in remonstration. _Fais attention!_ Helping her up and making sure she anchors herself with her hand gripping a grab bar on the wall, I pick up the conditioner again and slather it over her mound, giving her a questioning look. "Are you sure you're okay with this?"

She shrugs and crooks a sideways smile at me. "You're the one who's going to have to deal with the beard burn when it starts to grow back in, dude."

Bit by bit, following the grain of the hairs and rinsing the blade frequently, I stroke away her damp-darkened curls, taking exquisite care not to nick or abrade her and reapplying more conditioner as needed. When she is absolutely bare, I rub soothing oil into rawly exposed skin, then trace with my fingertip the now starkly evident lines of the THC molecule tattoo etched inside the jut of her right hipbone until she is shaking with the effort of standing still.

Urging her legs wider apart with my elbows and splaying her sex with the flats of my hands, I can feel her muscles tensing in anticipation at the descent of my mouth. The fingers of her free hand rake lightly through my hair as I skim my lips over newly sensitized skin, drawing from her a hissing breath and an involuntary jerk of her hips. She moans, clinging to the grab bar as I sweep my tongue through her folds, the cat-rough edges of her outer lips where I dared not shave her any more closely rasping me pleasantly. Strange to explore the well known landscape without being able to taste her at first, only the faint remnants of the conditioner and the heavy, slightly cloying cling of almond oil. I delve deeper, finally plumbing the familiar wetness that pools deep inside her pulsing cunt. As I nuzzle her, soothing delicate tissues with long lapping caresses of my tongue and darting the occasional teasing flutter over her plumply scarlet clit, her hips gyrate in increasingly jerky motions, her breath a rasping pant.

Not wanting her to come just yet, I steady her with my hands on her flanks until their trembling is barely perceptible. I rise slowly to my feet, trailing my breasts up her knees, her thighs, her newly naked sex, her belly, the firm-tender hillocks of her own breasts, suppressing a gasp when my hardened nipples brush at last against hers. My arms slide around her slim waist even as her arms drape about my shoulders. I pull her tightly to me into a long, searching and achingly sweet kiss.

I could happily stay just like this for hours, our bodies sealed to one another, mouths locked in tender combat, but for the rapidly heating hunger howling through both of us — to say nothing of the more practical consideration that she cannot go to bed with her hair wet, lest it develop the apparently repugnant dread rot. Reluctantly I shut off the water and fumble one hand toward the rack just outside the door until it finds an enormous fluffy towel, which I drape around her before the comparatively chilly air can steal the warmth from her slender frame. I grab a second towel for her and one for myself, damp-drying my hair with one corner and trusting to its cut and a quick ruffle of my fingers to make it fall into some semblance of presentability. Wrapping the towel around my torso, I lead her by the hand to the padded seat at the vanity.

Taking far more care with her hair than I had with mine, I squeeze and wring the water from her dreads, changing to a fresh dry towel when the first gets saturated and continuing until the the darkened lengths lighten gradually to their more usual shining deep chestnut brown. When the dreads are just barely damp, I finish by blowing them dry with her powerful dryer and its diffuser attachment, then quickly twist each loc with a clockwise motion to tighten up the smooth, straight sections at the roots.

"Warm enough?" I whisper before claiming her mouth again, trapping her lower lip in my teeth. Cosima murmurs wordlessly into our kiss. "I'll take that as a yes." I follow the line of her jaw down to her neck, then to the bounding pulse at her throat, letting my lips rest there a moment as I push the towel away from her. Settling her on the edge of the seat, I kneel between her legs, admiring the pulsing desire already shining within the vulnerable folds of her sex until the sight and scent render me unable to abstain any further; and then, at last, I bend to feed.

* * *

 _Next chapter: drunk karaoke and a wee bit of power play. And Delphine has been shopping again...  
_


	4. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 4

Catching herself just in time to keep from stumbling and falling flat on her face, Cosima glares at me and pointedly ignores my offer of a supporting arm. I give her my blandest smile and slip my phone back in my pocket, following as she picks up her pace toward the large table at the back.

Bobby's place is surprisingly uncrowded, but then it's relatively early for a Saturday evening. Heads turn as Cosima passes by the other customers, mostly a mix of queer and straight couples, with a few hopeful singles scattered at the bar. I don't blame them for staring: her pants hug her ass and her legs perfectly, and her sheer top clings to slender curves that the drape of her sweater enhances rather than conceals. The sway of her hips is bewitching; I take my eyes off them only long enough to fish out my phone again. She lurches when we reach the table, grabbing the edge of it to steady herself.

"Oi, Cos. You been gettin' a head start on us?" says Sarah, who has obviously been ensconced for some time. I raise an eyebrow at the impressive number of empty shot glasses clustered in front of the beer bottle clutched in her hand. She narrows her eyes, peering closely at Cosima. "You all right, then?"

"I'm fine," she says shortly, hitching cautiously up onto a barstool and refusing to look at me. I have to suppress a smug smile at her slight grimace as she shifts to reposition herself. Hanging up our coats, I sit on a stool next to her, leaving my phone on the table.

"Well, you look like you're about to chunder. Give me a shout when it's coming up so I can aim you the other way." Turning her sloppily unfocused gaze on me, Sarah scowls. "This your idea of taking care of my sister, Delphine? Bringing her here when she's on the verge of passing out and barely even has the strength to walk?"

"I thought it would do us both good to get some fresh air," I say noncommittally, waving at Bobby, who is working behind the long sinuous zinc-topped bar. She holds up a finger to let me know she'll be a minute; I nod in acknowledgment. I watch as she finishes making something complicated involving several skillfully poured layers of differently colored liqueurs, fruit on sticks, a little paper umbrella and a crazy straw, passes it to a server who whisks it away on a tray, then wipes her hands on a towel before coming over.

As always, Bobby smells of an intriguing mix of lavender, bergamot and vanilla. I have yet to determine whether she actually wears perfume, or if it is just her natural scent; in either case, it's delicious. Wearing yet another of her deeply scoop-necked tanktops that shows off her tattoos, her generous bosom and the creaminess of her skin, she is a walking exemplar of sensuality. After giving Sarah an appraising glance, probably to gauge her level of intoxication, she pushes up her cat-eye glasses with a fingertip and smiles at us. "What'll it be, ladies, the usual?"

Cosima nods, but I tilt my head, considering. "Do you have any Macallan 18-year?"

"Getting down to the last of my stash, but you're in luck. How do you want it?"

"In a Glencairn glass. Neat."

"Good answer. 'Cause if you'd asked for it on the rocks, I'd have had to kick you out." Bobby glances down at my screen and favors me with a wide grin and a wink. "Coming right up." Turning on the chunky heel of her boot, she heads back to the bar.

Swiping and tapping my phone, I set it back on the table. "Seriously, Cos, you look like shite," says Sarah, clearly worried. "Since it seems your girlfriend can't be arsed, you want me to take you home? To Felix's," she says, giving me a belligerent stare.

Pale, starting to breathe rapidly and shallowly, a sheen of sweat breaking out lightly over her face, Cosima shakes her head, not meeting Sarah's eyes. "I'm fine," she says again, her voice raspy.

A mini-skirted, heavily tattooed server brings Cosima's herbal tea and my Scotch. Cradling the rounded bottom of the glass in my hands to warm the burnished gold liquid, slowly I inhale to appreciate the aromas — oak and sherry up front, but then revealing nutty and caramel notes as I open my mouth slightly to let the air play over my palate. Lifting the tapered rim to my lips, I take a sip, letting the velvety smooth whisky roll around my tongue, the flavors metamorphosing from sweet to spicy to fruity and finishing with hints of cream and butterscotch.

"Let me know if you'd like us to leave you alone so you can make out with your drink, Delphine," says Sarah dryly.

"Hullo-ullo, my darlings. I'm here, the party can start now." Felix slips onto the stool next to Sarah, throwing an arm around her shoulders and blowing the table a kiss. Flawless makeup emphasizes the fine cut of his features and the enviable length of his eyelashes. I have no idea how he manages to move so fluidly while clad from the neck down in skintight leather.

Sarah regards him dubiously. "Aren't you a bit overdressed for karaoke night?"

"You're just jealous that I look better in your vest than you do." He tosses his head with a sniff. "And for your information, this glorious ensemble is not solely for your delectation. It's bear night at the Black Eagle and I'm hoping to meet a nice daddy who's willing to give a not so nice boy a bit of badly needed attention."

"Shoulda gone with the assless chaps, then. Save you some time."

Any retort he might have shot back at her is interrupted by the high-pitched whine of the PA system as Bobby gets up on the small stage at the other end of the bar and taps the microphone. "All right, all right! Ladies, gentlemen and those who have yet to make up your minds, welcome to karaoke night! We don't give a shit if you can't sing, this isn't American Fucking Idol. The only rule is: have a good time. Oh, yeah, and no fucking 'Bohemian Rhapsody.' Signup sheet's at the bar. First up is Sarah Manning! Rock on, Sarah!" Whistles and applause break out among the crowd, which has grown considerably since we first arrived.

" 'king hell?"

Felix makes a moue and bats his lashes at Sarah, heedless of her murderous expression. It occurs to me that he must be high. Probably on E, judging by his dilated pupils, amped up energy and utter lack of self-preservation when it comes to baiting his sister. "You know you want to. I can't tell you how many times I've walked in on you lip synching to your head-banging music on the stereo."

"C'mon, Sarah, I'll do it with you," says Cosima as she slides off her stool, seemingly fully recovered from her recent malaise. Dragging a reluctant Sarah by the hand, she chats with the guy in charge of the karaoke machine, then hops up on the stage.

When the brutally simple, visceral drums-and-guitar intro pounds through the sound system, though, Sarah is instantly transported. Unable to keep from dancing and gyrating her hips and nodding her head in time to the beat, she slinks up to the microphone right on cue. _"I saw him dancing there by the record machine. I knew he must have been about seventeen... "_

Her singing is surprisingly strong and unexpectedly on pitch, if not exactly musical — not that that really matters for this song. She starts out stiffly and self-consciously, but soon her jerkily rough movements crackle with feral energy fed by the enthusiastic response of the crowd. I focus my attention on Cosima. This is absolutely the antithesis of the music she usually loves to dance to, but still she moves gracefully, her body and arms supple, her dreads flying when she joins in to belt out the chorus: _"I love rock and roll. So put another dime in the jukebox, baby... "_

I let them almost finish the song before reaching again for my phone. Cosima clutches at the microphone stand to keep from crumpling to the floor. "Bloody hell!" Sarah rushes to grab her, but Cosima vehemently shakes her off. Eyeing her incredulously, Sarah lets her go.

Looking daggers at me, she shouts, "Delphine, stop fucking around with your bloody phone and take your girlfriend home." Her voice carries stridently over the music and a temporary lull in the crowd noise as the three of us are made the uneasy center of attention.

We stop at the bar so I can pay our tab as well as Sarah's and Felix's. The second we are outside the door, Cosima backs me against the wall and kisses me roughly, sliding her thigh between my legs and pressing it firmly against my center. I manage to reach my phone and tap the app command that sets the remote-controlled vibrator buzzing and pulsing in a preprogrammed pattern, holding my thumb down to keep it in continuous mode until her knees buckle so that she has to lean heavily into me for support.

"You," she murmurs against my lips, panting lightly, "are a very, very bad girl, Dr. Cormier. I lost count of how many times I just came in there." She deepens our kiss; I open to her, letting her taste the traces of whisky in my mouth. "Mmm. I'm not much of a Scotch drinker but I think I could get to like it this way."

"Do you think that Sarah would forgive me if she knew?"

"Probably not. She's really good at holding grudges."

I smile, caressing the silky skin at the back of her neck as she presses and grinds the length of her body against mine. "I gather that you like your birthday present?"

"Oh, yeah. Remind me to find some way to thank you for letting me open it early."

Sliding my hands inside her coat and around behind her to cup and fondle her buttocks, I pull her tightly to me. The vibrator's powerful motors are palpable even through the thick layers of our coats. "Off the top of my head, I can think of at least half a dozen ways that you could show your gratitude, chérie."

I can feel the shudder wring its way through her slender frame. "Well, before I do that, you're gonna have to take me home and fuck the _shit_ out of me. Like, right now."

* * *

 _Next chapter: Delphine likes to watch..._


	5. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 5

Leaning back, I tense my body into a reverse arc and stretch my arms toward the ceiling, my bare feet pointing and flexing against the harsh nap of the commercial-grade rug beneath my desk. After a long luxurious moment, I feel a series of little pops as my thoracic vertebrae settle into alignment; with a groan of satisfaction, I turn the stretch into a yawn, then relax into my chair.

The histopath report on Jennifer Fitzgerald's tissue samples that I'd received from CFS this afternoon is impressively thorough. In addition to the standard fixed tissue processing and immunostaining, the pathologist had run D2-40, CD34, CK-7 and even CDX-2 tests on the tumors, probably because of their unusual presentation. However, while interesting and enlightening, the data yield no more practical information than Nealon's own findings. Much as I dislike the man and question most of his methods and seeming lack of ethics, I am forced to admit that his work is first rate and meticulous.

So we are no further along with the clone disease, but at least I can be sure that we have not missed anything, as far as the limits of conventional medical diagnostics are concerned.

Having read minutely through the report, I scan and save it into a triple-encrypted file. Following Dyad's protocol, I randomly divide the thick sheaf of pages into two piles and put each pile into a separate microshredder. I feel my eyes glaze over with fatigue as I stare through the narrow plastic windows of the collection bins, watching tiny, diamond-shaped bits of paper flutter down to the bottom.

My phone emits a Wookiee howl, startling me out of my reverie. Discovering which new ringtones and alerts Cosima has downloaded can be highly amusing, but I have to remember to mute my phone before any meetings or video conferences. At least I have convinced her — for now — that burping and farting noises are inappropriate in the workplace, but I am no longer surprised if my phone randomly barks or quacks.

A picture of the two of us pops up on the screen. I smile at the memory of that day, when we had taken advantage of the unseasonably warm weather to go for a bike ride on the Waterfront Trail. The picture shows us with our cheeks pressed together as closely as our helmets would allow, the sunset over Lake Ontario painting red-gold light across our flushed smiling faces. Which would be even more flushed a few minutes later, when I had found a secluded area in which I could give in to the hunger stoked by hours of watching Cosima's spandex-clad ass pumping and surging tantalizingly out of reach.

Another Wookiee howl. This time, she has sent a text message. _Hey, Dr. Cormier, wanna play with me?_

Merde. I should have known she was up to something when she had acquiesced far too readily to my suggestion that she leave work early to go home.

Shaking my head to clear it, I tap out my reply. **What did you have in mind, chérie?**

 _You might want to wear your headset._ _The walls in your office have ears as well as eyes, remember_

Trepidation makes me hesitate, but curiosity wins. I rummage in my purse and find my Jawbone. Quickly I pair it to my phone and slip it into place. **Okay, it's on. Are you happy now?**

 _Not as happy as you're going to be, my mega-hot pervy voyeur. Get comfortable and enjoy the show_

Before I can ask what she means, a Skype alert pops up on the screen. When I click on it, at first I am unsure of what I am supposed to be seeing. There is a cream colored background with vague shadows and diffuse lighting, but no discernible details.

Then the webcam moves sideways, revealing first her feet with their neatly painted nails, then panning slowly up the smooth lengths of her legs.

The focus widens so that I can see all of her, lying on her side on a bed in what I think is one of the spare rooms in my flat. There is a small remote in her hand, obviously to control the high-def camera; from the faint bluish glow at the edge of the screen, I deduce that there must be a monitor of some sort so she can see what the camera sees. She is wearing her glasses, and nothing else.

I blink, then have to remind myself to close my mouth, which has suddenly gone dry.

A mischievous grin curls slantwise across her face. _"It's your lucky day, Dr. Cormier, complete with your very own personal camgirl,"_ she says, her voice burring huskily into my ear. Still somewhat hoarse after the bout of coughing that had made me send her home, the throatiness comes across through my headset as incredibly sexy, the audio equivalent of bourbon mixed with honey and touched by smoke.

I am only vaguely familiar with the term, but if this arrangement is any indication, the context is fairly clear.

 _"Now, usually this kind of thing involves a tip token system, but I didn't have time to set that up, so we're going to have to improvise. I'm going to send you a link for an app that will allow you to control the camera. And,"_ she waggles her eyebrows and licks her lips suggestively as she coos, _"you can put it **anywhere**."_

The playfully over-the-top gesture and intonation tell me that this is probably yet another pop culture reference I am going to have to look up. But not now. Jesus fuck, not now.

She raises her leg, bending it and then swinging it slowly to the side as she zooms the camera in on the glistening folds of her sex. Shockingly bare and vulnerable, the skin of her mound is nicely pink, shading to darker red at her center; both her outer and inner labia are already swollen, proudly guarded by the plump scarlet sentinel of her clit. I bite my lower lip when she starts gliding a finger through her wetness, imagining its slickness and its scent and the feeling of the contrast between turgid ridges and silken hot valleys, knowing exactly what she would taste like if only I could insinuate my tongue along the pathway her finger is tracing...

Mindful of the angle of the ceiling camera, I cross my legs tightly and hope that the constant rubbing together of my thighs is not too obvious.

At least the chance of any security department footage's going viral in the broader sense is vanishingly small. The one surveillance officer in recent memory who had violated company policy and posted to YouTube a video clip that contained relatively innocuous but still identifiable information had met with a gruesome and heavily publicized traffic accident the next day. And given the number of people working at all hours throughout Dyad's warren-like halls, it is fairly unlikely that any individual is being monitoring at any particular moment. Still, I have no wish to become an in-house sensation, and so I remain as still as possible, with my eyes glued to the screen of my phone and my thumbs hovering over the keyboard. Try as I might, though, I cannot entirely quell the subtle rocking and grinding of my hips in my chair.

A chirp alerts me to the arrival of an email containing the link for the webcam's app. Downloading and installing it on my phone takes only a few moments, though it seems longer as I imagine what Cosima must be doing while I impatiently wait for the process to finish. Finally the new icon appears; I jab at the screen with far more force than necessary to launch the app.

The camera's controls are simple and intuitive, and it does not take long to get the hang of manipulating the interface. Once I have her in focus and centered again, Cosima gives me a brilliant smile. With a lift of her chin that sets her dreads swinging, she indicates that I should move the camera to her right. She has evidently made good use of her brief offline time — I recognize several of our favorite accessories lined up on the nightstand.

Communication on my end is limited to texting. Feeling somewhat fevered and disoriented, I am not entirely sure how this game is to be played. **Touch yourself** , I finally send. **  
**

Up goes an eyebrow as she reads it. _"Gotta be a little more specific, babe. Tell me what, where, how, how hard, how fast,"_ she says with a naughty leer. _  
_

I swallow, my teeth catching my lower lip out of habit. **Your breasts. Just the tips of your fingers. Slow concentric spirals, approaching but not quite reaching your nipples.**

Obligingly she shifts to her back, leaving her phone propped up on the nightstand where she can see it and settling into a pile of pillows. As I watch, her already peaking nipples harden into tight little points that my hands long to caress, to trap between my fingers and squeeze almost to the point of pain. I want so badly to suck them and lick and bite at their pebbled surfaces until she is twisting and moaning.

 **Spread your legs, chérie. As wide as you can.**

Smiling into the camera, still playing with her breasts, she shows off her impressive flexibility. _"How's that?"_ My mouth waters at the sight of her, ripe and juicy as a split summer fruit.

 **Very nice. Now. Your right hand. Two fingers. Play with your clit.** Her left hand still teasing her breasts, her other hand trails down the flat expanse of her belly, caresses the rounded pink hillocks of her vulva, then dips two fingers into her wetness before slowly circling the impudently pouting swell of her clit. **Little tight circles, yes, like that.** Mesmerized, I watch the motion of her fingers and the involuntary pulsing grind of her hips, hear the wet lapping sounds of her growing desire. **Slow and firmer along the sides. Pretend it's my tongue licking you there, the way you like it best, but don't you _dare_ come.**

A soft sound escapes her. I smile to myself at this reluctant admission that she is not in quite as much control of the situation as she would like. _"God, you feel so good, Delphine. No one knows how to eat me like you do."_

Clamping my thighs together on a new surge of wetness and heat, I reach for my forgotten bottle of water and gulp half its remaining contents. **The little plug. Get it wet all over, first with your mouth, then with your cunt.** She reaches for the slender toy. Its tip is narrower than the end of my pinky; I know she can easily accommodate it even without any warmup. Her tongue curls around it, licking and swirling as though it were a lollipop; then, holding it by its base, she plays the tip over and around her clit before slipping it into her pouring cunt. It is far too small to give her any kind of gratification there, though, so after a few futile thrusts, she pulls it out and rolls over onto her side, facing away from the camera. Using the controls to zoom in, I watch enthralled as she slides it into place, her tight little ring pulsing visibly until it closes over the neck of the plug, the T-shaped base nestling between her cheeks.

I am starting to sweat. Every wriggle of her hips seems to spark an answering jolt of arousal that flashes straight to my aching sex. She turns over onto her back again; her thighs falling open once more, she resumes rubbing and circling her clit, using her remote to zoom the camera out so I can see her entire body writhing.

Finally I can't take it any more. Ending the camera's livestream connection, I switch to phone mode and hit her speed-dial key. She answers almost immediately. _"Hello, Dr. Cormier."_

"Cosima." My voice comes out as a hesitant croak — certainly not the impression I intend to convey. I cover the mic to clear my throat and try again, managing to inject just a hint of menace. "Stay where you are, I'm coming home. Just remember, chérie... "

 _"Yeeeeesss?"_ she purrs teasingly.

"Paybacks are a bitch."

In my mind's eye I can see her grin widening, baring nearly all her teeth _. "Bring it, Torrance."_

Stumbling to the bathroom, I waste no time jamming my hand down my pants. It takes just a few rough strokes over my glassy straining clit before I am clutching at the rim of the sink, coming in juddering, breath-halting waves. The crude, far too rapid release is in no way satisfying, but at least it is enough to temporarily blunt the razor edge of my desire.

I wash my hands and splash water over my face, then examine my reflection. No need for rouge — I am still flushed and panting. Carefully I darken and extend my eyeliner for a more dramatic effect, then apply mattifying powder to my nose and forehead to eliminate the shine. After a moment's indecision, I reach for the test tube rack that holds a few vials of my decanted perfumes and select the Caron Poivre. Dabbing a bit behind each ear, at the base of my throat and between my breasts, I surround myself with the subtle spicy scent of pepper that warms and gives way to floral and woody undertones. I pour a tiny dot of the dark amber liquid into my hands, rubbing them together and then running them through my hair to rough-comb my unruly curls into some kind of order.

Taking one last look, I nod, pleased at the results but a little startled by the wolfish cast of my smile. "Tu cherches des ennuis, Mlle. Niehaus? Bien, tu les trouveras en abondance."

* * *

 _Next chapter: paybacks are indeed a bitch... and so is Delphine, but in a really good way...  
_


	6. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 6

Humming to myself as I step out of the elevator into my flat, I hang up my coat in the entranceway closet and then set my purse and briefcase on the kitchen counter. I grab a bottle of water from the fridge and drink most of it as I sort through my pile of mail, dropping the bulk of it into the recycling bin. I note that the light is on in the spare room at the end of the hall; however, rather than going straight down there, I turn left instead into my own bedroom, deliberately pacing my stride so that the clicking of my heels rings loudly on the parquet floor and the hard surfaces of the still mostly empty place.

In the closet, I take my time making a single but significant amendment to my outfit. Checking my reflection in the full-length mirror, I am pleased to see that the fall of my blazer mostly conceals the new addition, though undoubtedly my tailor would disapprove of the way it spoils the drape of my pants. Much as I would love to remove my shoes, I decide to leave them on for now, for both the visual and the psychological impact.

Pulling a few other items out of drawers and from a shelf, I slip them into my pockets so that they are readily accessible and head down the hall.

Even knowing that Cosima is waiting naked in bed for me, the sight of her still takes my breath away. As I stand in the doorway, she turns onto her side, propping her head up on her elbow. She gives me a slow-burning smile at my unpremeditated sigh of pleasure as my eyes roam over her, devouring every inch of beautifully exposed flesh. My heart starts to pound, feeding into the insistent thrumming of my cunt and clit. "Hello, chérie," I say softly, moving to sit on the edge of the bed and smiling down at her.

"Hello, yourself." She raises her hand to my shoulder and glides it down my sleeve until she can twine our fingers together, clasping them into a loose fist. "You're supposed to say, 'Hi, honey, I'm home.'"

I chuckle. "Hi, honey, I'm home," I echo, lifting her hand to my mouth and pressing a lingering kiss to her palm, then rubbing my cheek against it as she cups the side of my face. Looking over at her spur-of-the-moment video studio setup on the dresser and the light diffusers improvised from white t-shirts on hangers cleverly arranged around the small space, I tilt my head at the camera, which is still mounted on its tripod and pointing toward the bed. "That's not recording right now, is it?"

Playing the tip of her thumb over my lips, she smiles when I nip at it. "Not unless you want it to be. Hey!" she protests when my teeth close down too sharply; yanking away her hand, she settles it on my thigh. "One of us is a little overdressed for the occasion, don't you think?" Her hand travels up my leg and meets with a substantial obstruction. The corner of her mouth twists into a knowing smirk. "Or perhaps not."

I stroke the deep indent of her waist, enjoying the resulting lazy ripple of toned muscle. Dipping farther down, I tickle her belly button to make her squeal with laughter. "Do you have any objections?"

Still giggling, Cosima traces the outline of my cock through my pants, squeezing its shaft rhythmically and pressing its base against my aching center, making me grunt. "None at all. But you're gonna have to work awfully hard to get something that big inside me."

Nonchalantly I move her hand aside and encourage her to roll onto her back; the movement shifts the little plug in her ass, making her squirm. "Is that a challenge, by any chance?" Smoothing my palms over the gentle curves of her hips, then sliding them up her narrow waist to encompass the outline of her ribcage, I lean over to kiss her deeply. She tastes of the pu-erh tea she has been drinking lately, rich, earthy and faintly sweet, along with the ever-present trace of weed and the indefinable but unmistakeable essence that is hers alone.

"Merely a suggestion." Up goes a sceptical eyebrow even as she licks her lips and swallows audibly. "So is this, like, your idea of payback, Dr. Cormier? Fucking me unconscious with your massive horse-dick? 'Cause I gotta say... not a lot of downside on my end here."

"I didn't say that that was the only item on my agenda, chérie." Drawing with my fingertips over the soft skin of her belly, I smile at the visible quickening of her breath and heart rate.

Her eyebrows swoop together. "Dude, did you just write the word 'brat'?"

"Yes." I lock my gaze on hers as I retrace the letters over her stomach, crossing the T close enough to her shaved mons to make her tense involuntarily in anticipation, then relax as I retreat. She is completely unprepared for my fingers' far too brief incursion into the heat-slick pour of her cunt, unable to stop the reflexive jerk of her hips and the sharp hissing inhalation that tails off into a low moan when I slide them free.

Making sure she is watching, I paint her with her wetness so that the shining trail spells out BRAT! just above her mound. She sticks out her tongue and narrows her eyes at me in a mock glare, stretching wantonly under my touch.

Letting my hands drift upward, I linger at the sides of her breasts, feathering butterfly strokes where she is most sensitive until she is arching her back and writhing, tiny whimpers seeping around the edges of every exhalation. Reluctantly abandoning the soft swells, slowly I trail my fingers up the insides of her arms until I can clasp her hands in mine. Bearing down to trap them against the mattress, I smile at her willingness to give in to my bidding. "Cosima, do you love me?"

Her eyes behind her glasses are luminous and wide, dark with want. She nods.

I bend to kiss her again, harder, until we are both a little breathless when I finally break away. "Do you trust me?"

She nods again. Face flushed, lips plumply swollen and slightly apart, a light sheen of sweat breaking out over her skin, the heady scent of her arousal enveloping me, she is powerfully alluring. It takes every bit of my self control not to simply tear off my clothes and take her right then and there.

Letting go her hands and sitting up, I reach into my jacket pocket and pull out a pair of long silk scarves, holding them so that she can see. The sheer fabric is so finely woven that the two of them can be drawn through a single ring at once; their gauzy and fragile appearance is deceptive, as we both have reason to know. Again, she nods, then lies back, leaving her arms bent at an easy angle on either side of her head and waiting.

Quickly tying a slipknot at the end of one scarf, I slide the loop over her forearm and snug it down just distal to her elbow, then throw several half-hitches in succession so that the last one encircles her slender wrist. Repeating the process with her other arm, I fasten the free ends of the scarves to the headboard with quick-release knots, leaving the tails long and with enough play in the length so that she can move about as needed — and, more importantly, so that there is no impediment to her breathing.

Taking a moment to admire my handiwork, I smile down at her, leaning in to capture her mouth again in a searching kiss. Moving in infinitesimal intervals, I kiss my way along the line of her jaw and down her throat. "Comfortable?" I whisper, pressing my lips against the superbly tender hollow at the convergence of her finely made collarbones, feeling the bounding of her pulse.

She tilts back her head to give me better access. "Oh, yeah."

"Good." I brush my lips with the barest pressure along the shell-like curl of her ear until she shivers. "Because, chérie," I say huskily, baring my teeth at her in a feral grin, "my idea of payback is that I am going to eat you out without letting you come for one. solid. hour."

A choking gasp wrests from her even as her legs spread wide open in blatant enticement. All too conscious of the ever-increasing hunger in my own dripping sex, the throbbing of my trapped clit, the almost painful tightness of my nipples as they rub against my blouse, I sit back and remove one of the other objects from my pocket, a brand new powder puff. Delicately skimming its silken wool fibers slowly along the insides of her arms, around her breasts, down the center of her chest, over the flat roiling plain of her belly and ghosting just above her still hypersensitive mound, I watch raptly as her skin goose-pimples in my wake. _Oh, this is going to be fun_...

* * *

At the end of the hour we are both unequivocally a mess.

My face and hair are absolutely, gloriously drenched in her wetness. My sweat-soaked blouse and jacket are probably a loss, I decide as I impatiently cast them off and fling them to the floor. My pants relinquish their tenacious grip on my legs only after some persuasion, having to ease them carefully over the considerable distension strapped to my pelvis.

The only thing that matters right now is my all-consuming urge to be inside her, to see and feel and hear her shatter apart.

She is unbelievably wet and swollen after such prolonged torment, as am I. I know there is no need for caution as I enter her. And yet I draw out the agonizing delight, savoring the sight of my cock burying itself inch by inch into the unbearable decadence of her welcoming depths, my hips finding an unhurried pace that continues to open her with every motion.

Her legs wrap around my waist, locking her ankles just above my churning buttocks as I raise up on my arms to tilt my weight into the slow pistoning of my cock, making sure to grind the heavy base against her clit. With a hoarse shredded cry, she convulses beneath me, her cunt and legs clutching me frantically, every muscle of her upper body standing out in high relief as she strains against her bonds while I fuck her relentlessly through the frenzied shudders and spasms of long-delayed release. Increasing the driving force of my hips in response to the helpless jerking of her body, I add a sharp twist at the deepest part of each stroke. Rutting and swiveling into her, every savage thrust torques my need for her ever higher until my abused clit bursts. Something ignites deep in my belly; snarling, gasping raucously and runneled with sweat, my spine feels as though it were melting and erupting as I bolt into her again and again.

Shakily reaching for the headboard, I undo each knot with a quick tug to loosen the ends of the scarves. With unsteady hands I remove the sodden lengths of silk from her arms. Still buried to the hilt within her, carefully I roll us over together so that her small frame is draped fully on top of me, aftershocks quaking through both of our trembling bodies. Kissing her softly, murmuring comforting nonsense into her lips, I caress the long planes of her back until at last she is heavily still.

"Hey, Delphine?" she mumbles blissfully into the curve of my neck.

I settle her more comfortably against me, holding her tightly and pressing my lips to her temple. "Yes, Cosima?"

"What would you do to get back at me if I sent you a strippergram at work?"


	7. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 7

"What was that?" Cosima calls over her shoulder, the hem of her robe swaying hypnotically as she dances to some internal melody and rhythm.

Wrapping my arms around her from behind, I sweep the mass of her dreads to the side so I can kiss the back of her neck, nuzzling the silky skin and inhaling deeply to indulge in her scent as I wait for the blender's motor to whine to a halt. "I said, it looks as though you brought half of your lab home with you." Indeed, there are apothecary jars, HDPE bottles, stirring rods and even a gram scale and a handful of weighing papers scattered all over the kitchen island, along with numerous interestingly labeled bags full of mysterious powders and dried herbs. Kale, papaya, beet, carrot, pineapple and mango trimmings surround the cutting board.

"I'm testing out a smoothie recipe I found on an online forum," she says as she pours — I can't help thinking that "plops" would be a more accurate description — a little of the viscid olive-green concoction into a glass and turns in the circle of my embrace to offer it to me. "Wanna try some?"

I school my face not to react as I take a cautious sip. The flavor is... earthy, certainly, with a not unpleasant sweetness and astringency; it is far less off-putting than I had expected, but cinnamon and ground chia seeds give the mixture an unfortunate mucinous consistency that makes it difficult to swallow without gagging. "It tastes," I say judiciously, longing to rinse out my mouth to rid it of the slimy film clinging to my tongue, "like it's probably very good for you." Spotting a stray piece of pineapple on the countertop, I nab it, welcoming the faintly prickly sensation induced by its sweet-tart juicy flesh as it literally cleanses my palate.

The corner of her mouth draws up wryly. "That's what I was afraid of." Leaning against my chest and tucking her head into the curve of my neck, she contemplates the contents of the blender and sighs. "Considering what the damned ingredients cost and how much of a pain in the ass they were to gather together, this shit ought to cure the common cold, do your taxes, wash and wax your car and give you a blowjob."

"Maybe we could feed it to the plants in the atrium garden downstairs." _Because it's very nearly compost already_. I pick up a bag whose label is handwritten in what looks like Chinese script. Taking a careful sniff of the reddish-brown powder inside, I immediately recognize the smell. "Reishi mushroom, isn't it?"

"Yeah." One eyebrow arches as Cosima tilts her head up to look at me. "How the hell did you know that?"

"I attended a CME lecture on holistic nutrition and TCHM a few years ago. The speaker was extremely, euh, enthusiastic about reishi's adaptogenic properties. If I recall correctly, it's supposed to be more effective if taken as a decoction; the hot water extracts more of its active components than if you simply ingest it."

"Dude. I am _not_ drinking tea made from something that smells like my lab mouse cages when Scott hasn't cleaned them out for a few days."

"Ouache!" I laugh at her expression, holding her more tightly. "You could bring it to the pharmacy at work and have them put it into capsules. It might not be as potent as mouse-dropping tea but at least that way you wouldn't have to taste it."

"Good idea. But I kinda hate to toss this after going to all the trouble of making it, so here goes." After taking a few deep preparatory breaths, Cosima upends the blender jar and chugs directly from it, somehow managing to down the entire lot in a series of resoundingly determined gulps. Finished, she shakes herself like a dog emerging from water, panting lightly. "Whoo. I'm gonna be really disappointed if that doesn't at least give me, like, Spidey-senses or something." She sets the jar back on the counter and drapes her arms around my neck, leaning into me almost as much for support as to enfold me into a kiss; greedily I absorb the warm length of her body pressed against mine. "Good morning, by the way," she murmurs.

My hands drift down to cup her buttocks through thick fleece, stroking and kneading. Despite her slenderness, the rounds of her ass are still enticingly full and firm, pressing temptingly into my caress. I smile against her lips. "Good morning, chérie."

Fingers wind into my hair as we deepen our kiss, exploring, discovering unfamiliar tastes among familiar textures. I slide one hand between us under the wrap of her robe to rest on her belly, making tiny circles over the soft suppleness. Dipping my head, I kiss my way down the elegant line of her neck, seeking out the tender spots at her throat, gentle vibrations tickling my lips as she purrs in response. "Mmm. Do you really have to go in to work? You do realize that it's, like, Saturday?"

"Unfortunately, yes. I'm still going through Aldous' notes on the other Ledas; I'm only about halfway done." Gently I worry with careful teeth at the juncture of her neck and shoulder, biting just hard enough to mark her but not break the skin, then soothing the dark red semi-circles with lazy strokes of my tongue. "But I should be back home by this afternoon, and then we'll have the rest of the weekend to do whatever you want."

Rucking up the hem of my t-shirt and slipping a hand underneath the waistband of my loose knit pants, she dances her fingers lightly over the small of my back, then walks them teasingly up my spine. Her other hand cradles my scalp and scritches delightfully with smooth blunt nails. "Fine, dammit. Be a grownup." Pulling me down, she kisses me softly, her lips grazing mine with infinite tenderness.

I rest my forehead against hers. "How about you? Any plans for the day?"

Cosima chuckles. "No plans as such, unless you count doing yoga, smoking the biggest, fattest joint I can possibly roll with the dankest, gnarliest, stickiest green in my stash, taking a nap, and having a nice loud messy wank on the sofa. Not necessarily in that order."

Laughing, I kiss her again, then reluctantly let go of her. "I think I prefer your plans to mine, especially that last part. But don't you mean after?"

She frowns slightly. "After what?"

Pinching her bottom to make her squeak and glare at me, I nod at the spectacular mess threatening to engulf the island. "After you clean up in here. Because if you don't — "

"Yeah, yeah, I know, that's how you get ants." The tip of her tongue peeks out between her teeth as she gives me an insolent grin.

"Yuuuuuuuuup."

* * *

I rub my temples and apply pressure to the bridge of my nose, trying to ward off an incipient headache. So far the most significant finding I have gleaned from the reams of reports and Aldous' own extensive observations is that he had begun manipulating both the clones' and the monitors' behavior and situations very early on, almost from the beginning. There is no official record of the frequency or the extent of his involvement, of course, but knowing how he tended to operate under Topside's aegis, it is not difficult to read between the lines and discern that he or more likely the agents working on his orders had somehow intervened in ways both small and large over the course of his subjects' lives time and time again.

A teacher assigned to monitor a then-10-year-old Czech clone named Berta Tomkovà was fired by the Ministryně Školství, Mládeže a Tělovýchovy for reasons unspecified, though there were sussurrations among his colleagues that he had a tendency to befriend some of his pupils a little too closely; he moved soon afterward to a remote village in the Pardubice district and became a virtual recluse after retiring abruptly and unexpectedly from his profession. The file on Lorraine Healey, an Oklahoma City housewife, contains scant information beyond the most basic data but outlines a history of frequent visits to her local walk-in clinic for treatment of injuries sustained from "accidents" throughout nearly seven years of an unhappy marriage; the only picture included of her shows a thin, anxious-looking woman, her face hauntingly unrecognizable, at the funeral of her husband, dead at 26 of what the coroner's report noted as a subarachnoid hemorrhage despite a medical history completely lacking in the clinical signs and symptoms of a brain aneurysm. Regina Stanley, a student at the University of Saskatchewan College of Law, who had been undergoing counseling for depression largely due to anxiety about her crippling debt, found herself the sudden recipient of a windfall of a grant that she didn't remember having applied for; attributing what she thought must be a lapse in her memory to a bout of blackout drinking, she enrolled herself in an alcohol detox program, dried out successfully, and married her therapist/monitor not long after graduating.

All throughout Aldous' notes, his concern and even deep affection for many of the subjects is patently obvious. Consciously or not, any pretense of running a true double-blind study was clearly abandoned long ago, completely subverting any possibility of impartiality and rendering the entire Leda project a scientific, ethical and empirical failure, quite apart from the moral black hole of having created human clones to begin with.

With a sigh, I click on the file I had been putting off reading for weeks now. It is one of the largest and most comprehensive, containing hundreds of gigabytes of data, labeled COSIMA IRENE NIEHAUS.

I am already intimately acquainted with much of the information, though the revelation that her mother was her first monitor comes as a slight shock. Further perusal reassures me that her involvement was most likely benign: she had been told that the IVF clinic wanted to make sure that Cosima was healthy and developing normally, and so she happily sent regular updates on her daughter's height, weight, overall well-being and her astonishing academic progress.

Skimming through the reports, I focus instead on the pictures, many of which I have never seen before. Cosima as a smiling, wide-eyed baby. Cosima as a skinny little kid on a beach, gap-toothed and scabby-kneed, holding up a conch shell and totally unconcerned about the large gangly black bird standing next to her with its wings spread and yellow-orange beak open in warning. Cosima as the winner of the 1995 California State Science Fair, grouped in the Senior Division even though she would have been only in the eighth grade at the time; her huge smile is achingly familiar as she stands proudly in front of a display illustrating her hypothesis that _A. borkumensis_ could be genetically modified so that its oil-eating enzymes would break down PET plastics into carbon and energy. _  
_

One picture in particular captures my attention. Apparently taken at her high school senior prom, Cosima beams radiantly at the camera, her dreads barely reaching her shoulders, her arms wrapped around the waist of a tall, svelte, stunningly beautiful girl who is wearing a perfectly fitted tuxedo and stiletto heels. This must be Morgan, I realize with a stab of irrational jealousy. Reluctantly I admire the fall of jet black glossy hair framing wide, slightly almond-shaped deep brown eyes and high, angled cheekbones; her full lips and sharply incised jawline would be the envy of any editorial model.

I don't need to check the records to confirm that she was Cosima's monitor, at least until they parted amicably to attend their respective colleges.

Closing and re-encrypting the file, I sit back in my chair, swiveling to look out through the wide expanse of glass at the Toronto skyline, the lake shimmering on the distant horizon.

It still seems unreal, my tenuous position as... what? Rachel has not codified my status, though I seem to have been designated the unofficial dogsbody of the Leda project. I cannot help the feeling that at any minute, Aldous will stride through the door, bowing ironically as he waits for me to vacate his desk.

Oddly, I can almost sympathize with him now. What must it have been like, shepherding these dozens of miraculous beings from before the time they were even born, then being kept constantly apprised of even the smallest details of their lives as they grew and changed and loved and lost? I doubt I could have maintained my distance, either.

Enough. I've been away for only a few hours but still it feels too long since I have seen and held and kissed her. Gathering my things and slinging on my coat, I send a quick text. **On my way home. Je t'aime, chérie.**

* * *

 _Next chapter: Cophine explore the benefits of yoga...  
_


	8. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 8

The late-afternoon sun slants low across my face. It is warm enough that I pause on the sidewalk for a moment, shuffling my purse and briefcase from one shoulder to the other in order to shrug out of my coat and drape it over my arm. There's still a chill in the air, but as long as I keep moving I'm perfectly comfortable in my heavy faded linen shirt and my oldest jeans. When I am a few blocks away from my building, on impulse I take a slight detour down Yonge Street to drop in at Nadège.

Stopping just inside the entrance, I close my eyes and inhale deeply, breathing in the pâtisserie's delicious atmosphere, the aromas of warm sugar and spices and baked goods in every possible incarnation swirling around the small bright space. When I open my eyes again, I can feel myself blushing when I realize that the pretty dark-haired young woman at the counter is watching me. "Was it good for you?" she says with a saucy grin.

 _Lindsay_ , my mind supplies belatedly; she has been our server a few times when Cosima and I have come in for brunch. "Yes, but I'm hoping it's going to be even better very soon."

Wide near-black eyes flash in merriment. "I think I can make that happen. Let me guess: a dozen macarons — two vanilla, two pistachio, two green tea, six salted caramel. One almond croissant, one chocolate. One demi baguette, _bien cuit_. Large coffee, black, and large chai. Did I forget anything?"

Shaking my head, I smile. "Perfect as always, Lindsay." I watch as she reaches deftly behind the long glass-sided case, in which pastries are lined up in regimented precision and lit from above as brightly and elegantly as a jewelry display. The slim, dark golden brown baguette goes into a paper bag, the croissants into a small cardboard box. From the colorful array of macarons, she carefully picks out my selections with tongs, placing them meticulously into a long narrow box; when the box is filled, she slides it into its outer sleeve whose bright orange sides are printed with a subtle abstract pattern.

Reaching into the case one more time, Lindsay plucks out a seventh salted caramel macaron and deliberately pinches its domed top and bottom slightly with the scalloped edges of the tongs. "Oops. How clumsy of me. I guess I'm going to have to throw this one out," she says, even as she places the barely dented confection on a napkin and hands it to me with a wink. I pay for my items, drop a five dollar bill into the tip jar and then accept my shopping bag and drink carrier, giving her a wave while I somewhat awkwardly negotiate the door on my way out.

As I walk down the street, I nibble at my macaron. The delicately crisp shell gives way to the tender insides and filling, which is creamy and smooth, not too sweet and balanced with just the right hint of salt. Each tiny bite melts almost instantly on my tongue; slowly I savor the taste, making it last until I arrive at my building. Shoving the napkin into my pocket, somehow I manage to extract my elevator keycard without dropping or spilling anything.

Dumping my unwieldy load in the kitchen with a thankful sigh, I look around. Her phone rests face down on the island. "Cosima?" I call out. No answer. I wander over to the living room, where I can see movement out on the terrace through the enormous floor-to-ceiling windows. The rays of the setting sun temporarily blind me, so I angle sideways out of their path to get a better look.

And stop dead in my tracks, mesmerized.

Sitting in the center of her huge square exercise mat, she rocks back onto her pelvis, pointing her feet and lifting her legs together until they are at a 45° angle to her utterly straight spine while her arms reach forward parallel to the floor. She holds the position longer than I would have thought possible, then lowers her legs. Grasping her right leg with both hands, she draws her knee high up on her arm. With both hands braced flat on either side of her hips, she exhales as she presses upward, lifting herself with her left leg fully extended.

Every visible muscle is beautifully defined, every vein in her arms stands out in map-like delineation, every action is calm and graceful and perfectly controlled, flowing easily into the next. There is not the slightest trace of strain or tension in her body.

The same cannot be said of mine. I lick my lips and swallow hard.

After eight breaths, she lowers her hips back onto the mat and crosses her left ankle over the right while clamping her right shin against her right arm. Slowly, smoothly, she straightens her legs out to the side. Exhaling and pressing down with her palms to once again lift herself off the floor, she bends her elbows and leans her torso forward until her shoulders, back and hips are all in line at the same level and she is gazing straight ahead with her neck extended, her expression serene. Holding the pose for eight breaths, she unfolds herself, then repeats the whole sequence on the other side.

Cooling down with several minutes of twists and stretches, finally she lies flat on her back, arms down at her sides, breathing and relaxing deeply.

I take off my boots, leaving them beside the door. Quietly I slide open the wide glass panel and step out onto the terrace. "Hi, honey, I'm home," I say softly so as not to startle her.

"Hi, yourself." Eyes still closed, she smiles. "I missed you."

"I missed you, too." Dropping down to lie on my side, close enough to feel the heat radiating from her, I prop my head up on my elbow and devour her with my eyes. Her toned form is enhanced by her close-fitting olive halter-top sports bra and multicolored cropped leggings that leave far more to the imagination than they conceal. She smells of clean sweat and her own unique spicy scent, delightfully intensified after her exertions.

"You were watching me, weren't you."

"Mmhmm."

"You're totally turned on right now, aren't you."

"Mmhmm."

Cosima slowly opens her eyes, blinking nearsightedly up at me through long lashes as her smile widens lazily. "Then why the hell aren't you jumping my bones?"

Reaching to caress the curve of her face, I brush the side of my thumb over the softness her cheek. "It's tempting but I thought it might be rather poor form to ravish my girlfriend while she is in the process of attaining mindfulness and expanding her consciousness."

"True, you might, like, knock a few of my chakras out of whack or blacken my third eye or something. You, Dr. Cormier, are a philistine and a complete perv. Luckily for you," she rolls over to face me, kissing me tenderly, "you're _my_ perv. And you taste like salted caramel, which means you went to that amazing bakery, which means you'd better have brought home some of those awesome little thingies or else."

"Macarons, and yes, I did. Or else what, chérie?"

She kisses her way along my jawline until her lips unerringly find the most sensitive spot beneath my ear. "Or else," she whispers hoarsely, "I won't let you take me, right here, right now."

"Out here?" I can't help saying.

Though really, I consider as I look around, it's hardly as though we were exposed. The only lights on inside the flat are in the kitchen, too far away to make any significant impact on the darkness that is beginning to unfurl over the last reddish-purple traces of sunset and the awakening glitter of downtown in the evening. The low parapet blocks the view of us from below and from most of the surrounding buildings. Both patio heaters are on, so the terrace is warm even as the ambient temperature drops. The mat is well padded and firm, quite comfortable over the concrete floor and more than big enough for the both of us. And I have a beautiful, outrageously sensual and very willing accomplice at my disposal.

Gently she nibbles at my earlobe, making me shiver. "Seriously, dude? This, from the woman who scissored me senseless in the woods not ten feet off the bike trail in Marie Curtis Park. The woman who bribed the staff at the CN Tower to strand us three quarters of the way up so she could eat me out in a glass-floored elevator overlooking the city at night. The woman who ass-fucked me up against the window in that gorgeous bathroom at Spice Route — "

Gripping her shoulders to push her onto her back, I lower myself carefully atop her with my weight balanced on my arms to either side of her head and pin her in place with my mouth, smiling at her surprised chuff of breath and her answering smile as she parts her lips to welcome the beckoning of my tongue with the swirling gliding invitation of hers.

Hands yank the tails of my shirt free from my jeans and deftly unbutton it, slipping beneath my camisole and up my belly to settle below the curves of my breasts, squeezing and kneading lightly. Bracing on one elbow, I slide my other hand down her belly and under the waistband of her leggings; the stretchy fabric is snug but not too tight to maneuver. Tracing with my fingers the smooth swells and dips of her mound provokes a hissing intake of breath and jerk of her hips. "You must have shaved again today."

"And exfoliated. Don't wanna get ingrown hairs. So I'm, like, _super_ sensitive everywhere down there. But not just due to shaving. Did you know," Cosima murmurs against my lips, "that certain asanas improve blood flow, energy and vitality to the pelvic area?"

"Oh, yes?"

"Oh, yes. Which means that you're in luck because I am one _massively_ horny, wet mofo right now." Lightly she sweeps the tip of her tongue along the roof of my mouth, then over the inner curve of my lower lip, which she catches carefully in her teeth. Sliding her hands up my chest, stroking the tops of my breasts, she smiles into our kiss. "As a matter of fact, I think you could do with some mindfulness and consciousness-expanding yourself."

Dipping my fingers into the warm, slippery groove of her sex, I growl approvingly as her hips buck against the teasing caress. "And how do you propose I go about achieving that?"

She snakes one hand behind my neck to wind her fingers into my hair, pulling me closer. "For one thing, you have entirely too many clothes on."

"Mindfulness and consciousness-expanding require my being naked?" My heart pounds, liquid heat gathering at the insistent ache between my legs. I can feel her pulse through her swelling lips. Little electric jolts surge through me wherever her fingers brush over my skin.

"The nakeder, the better."

I circle the pad of one finger around the swell of her clit, throwing a syncopated hitch into the undulating rhythm of her hips. "That would be an admirable and no doubt highly effective slogan for marketing your brand of yoga."

"Wait'll you see the brochures and TV ads. Took an entire team of lawyers to hammer out the fine print in the disclaimer."

"I didn't read it. I was too enthralled by the illustrations and diagrams and trying to figure out how in the world Tab A can even fit into Slot B."

Her breath and pulse come faster, shallower. "Allow me to demonstrate. Some of the more complicated poses require intense preparation and repetition to master." Carefully she grasps my wrist and pulls my hand free, whimpering softly as I brush exquisitely sensitive flesh along the way. Sitting up, she quickly strips off her bra and wriggles out of her leggings. There is just enough of a glow from the patio heaters for me to appreciate the gleaming perfection of her skin and taut form. "But we'll start with the basics. This," she says as she gracefully sinks to all fours facing away from me, letting her belly dip as her pelvis lifts upward to give me an enchanting view, "is adho mukha shvanasana, or the dog tilt pose."

Moving close enough to surround myself with the rising tendrils of her scent, I cup her buttocks in my hands and brush my lips over the deep curve of her spine. "I think I'm starting to get enlightened already." Spreading the flexing rounds of muscle to gain better access, I sweep my tongue through her glistening depths, luxuriating in the sweet salty musky richness of her arousal and basking in her long, low moan.

* * *

 _Next chapter: smut, smut, smut and smut. And, for a change of pace, some more smut. If anal sex isn't your thing, I feel very sad for you, but you may wish to avert your eyes beginning from_ _the second half of chapter 9 and continuing through most of chapter 10..._


	9. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 9

"D'you suppose he has night-vision goggles?" says Cosima into the curve of my neck.

I snug her more closely against me, nuzzling the spicy scent of her skin and luxuriating in the slight weight and warmth of her length pressing me into the mat. "Who, chérie?"

"Dude on the balcony a few floors up from us. Building next door."

There is just enough ambient light for me to be able to see where she is pointing. A flash of white catches my eye. A man in a suit, I realize; his shirt front is bisected by the dark band of his tie. The cuff of his sleeve is slowly, rhythmically moving back and forth in an unmistakable pattern. "Oh!" I am glad that she cannot see my face, which I can feel flushing with heat. "How... how long has he been there?"

"Ainnh, who knows? Long enough, obvs," she shrugs, feathering a kiss against my throat. "Probably stepped out for a smoke or something and happened to catch sight of us before the sun went down. Look, he's about to come."

Indeed, the cuff is moving faster and faster until suddenly it stops, wavering in place almost drunkenly. Perhaps it is only in my imagination, but I fancy that I can hear a choking grunt over the sounds of traffic and other night noises in the air.

"Hope you enjoyed the show while you could, fella." After a few minutes, the white shirt and its cuff disappears, then a light goes on inside the room, the glass of the balcony door obscured by blinds. "Aw, poor thing's a one and done. Bet we were the highlight of his day."

"You don't find it creepy, being watched like that?" I press my lips to her temple.

A puff of warm breath tickles my neck, her whole body shaking as she chuckles. "I'm not, like, an exhibitionist or anything, but I have no problem with anyone's knowing that I'm banging the hottest woman on the planet. Besides," her teeth gleam in the darkness, "not to brag, but I'm not exactly hideous to look at either. And in case you hadn't noticed, _I'm_ the lucky sumbitch who gets to be with you. Guy like that probably wouldn't have a clue how much of an insatiable freak you are behind that demure, proper demeanor — and before you ask, that is a very good and fucking amazing thing. No way in hell would he be able to keep up with you. I mean, seriously, his dick would, like, fall off after the first dozen go-rounds. Not that I'd ever let him have a shot." She leans into me and kisses me breathless. "On top of all that, you're way better hung than he is."

I smile against the assault on my mouth. "You're so cute when you get possessive."

"Mine." Kissing her way down my neck, she fastens her teeth over my jugular with a playful growl and bites down, sucking hard. "Or do you need to be reminded?"

I moan softly at the sensation that dances on the blurred boundary between pleasure and pain, picturing the bruise that will mark me there. Sliding my hand down, I stroke the graceful bevel where her ribcage meets her abdomen. My other hand trails over the satiny lines of her cheek and jaw, tipping up her face with my fingers so I can kiss her again, softly. "Yours."

"And don't you forget it." A tremor ripples through her, though of a much different nature than earlier.

"You're getting cold, chérie. Go on in, I'll take care of things out here." Without a word, Cosima scrambles to her feet, giving me a hand up and stealing another kiss before she heads inside.

Finding the bottle of disinfectant that she keeps in a storage compartment underneath one of the tables, I spray down the mat and leave it draped over a chaise to dry. I shut off the heaters and start to search for our clothing but quickly realize the futility of stumbling around in the dark. Mentally I shrug, reminding myself to return later when I can turn on a light.

Happy little tuneless humming sounds echo from the kitchen. I find her leaning on the bar, clutching the uneaten half of her croissant in one hand and her chai in the other. Rather than warm up the lukewarm tea, she has poured it into a glass over crushed ice along with some heavy cream. There are already four vacancies in the long narrow box of macarons. "What?" she says, giving me an archly mischievous look; a few flaky crumbs cling to the corners of her mouth.

I can't help laughing, enveloping her in my embrace and kissing her deeply, licking off some of the crumbs. "You taste delicious. I was going to ask what you wanted for dinner but you seem to have decided that already."

"I haven't really been that hungry all day thanks to the snot smoothie I had this morning, so this is perfect. Besides, we've got all the major food groups represented here: sugar, butter, chocolate and caffeine. All about balance. And these," she waves her croissant in the general direction of the macarons, scattering more crumbs over the counter, "are made of, like, magical unicorn farts or something, so they don't even really count."

I roll my eyes, letting her go so I can reheat my coffee in a small saucepan over a very low flame. Setting my croissant on a plate, I place it into the toaster oven to warm.

She finishes her croissant in a few bites and licks chocolate off her fingers, then nabs another macaron. Pressing her gloriously naked body against mine, she drapes her arms around my neck to pull me into a slightly sticky kiss. "Now. If you'll recall, you said that we would do whatever I wanted for the rest of the weekend. So I'm gonna go do a little cleanup and prep. Because what I want, Dr. Cormier," she drops her voice into its sultriest range, "is for you to fuck me up the butt until I can't walk straight for days. Got it?"

All I can do is nod.

Even after reheating, the coffee is bold and velvety, strong without a trace of bitterness; I drink it too quickly to fully appreciate it, though, nearly scalding my tongue. I take a big bite of my croissant, its buttery, crisp-tender layers yielding easily to my teeth and filling my mouth with the rich sweet taste of almond paste, but find I am far too impatient to finish it. Tucking the remainder back into its box, I hastily clean up the small mess in the kitchen and try not to sprint to my bedroom.

"Goddammit, Edna!"

Merde. I abandon filing my nails and rush somewhat awkwardly to the hall bathroom, where Cosima is staring morosely down into the toilet. "Why are you shouting at your tumor, chérie?"

"Nothing for weeks, and she has to act up now?" Reaching for the tissue paper, she swipes a wad between her legs and shows me the mix of dark clots and fresh bright red blood.

"Do you want me to scan your uterus? I brought home a portable ultrasound unit the other day."

She sighs. "No, it's not that bad. Just kind of caught me by surprise. Some of the more advanced asanas I was doing must have put a little too much strain on my lower abdomen."

Activating the bidet function, she spends extra time cleansing herself thoroughly. While the dryer is blowing, I open a cabinet to pull out a tampon and hand it to her. She inserts it, then washes her hands and wraps her arms around me, clinging tightly.

I hold her closely, stroking the long planes of her back and burying my mouth into the varied textures of her dreads, breathing in her scent and trying to will comfort and assurance into her.

"Hemorrhaging uterine tumors. Sexy, huh," she murmurs against my chest, finally beginning to relax again.

"Shhh. It's no different than if you suddenly got your period."

"I guess. And it's not like I've ever had a regular cycle, especially in the last few months." Tilting her head up for a long, slow, searching kiss, she smiles crookedly. "Good thing there's at least one other port in the storm." Her hand drops to stroke my thickly heavy appendage. "Assuming you still want to dock this submarine in it."

"A very good thing." Cupping her face in my hands, I let my tongue tangle gently with hers even as my hips instantly match the rhythm of her hand. "And of course I do. You didn't think you were going to get off that easily, did you?

"I think," she says, nibbling at my lip, "that I am going to get off as soon as you work this cock into my ass."

I ignore her terrible joke, glad for the resilience of her off-kilter sense of humor even as I shudder with delectable anticipation. "Lie down on the bed, chérie."

"Ma'am, yes ma'am." Cosima sketches an ironic salute, then saunters off with some semblance of her usual swagger.

Taking a deep breath to center myself, I follow.

The sight of her makes my heart stutter for a few beats before it catches again and starts to pound. Prone, arms relaxed and down by her sides, her head rests on the towel that I'd rolled lengthwise and coiled into a thickly padded round to serve as a makeshift face cradle. Candlelight flickers over the perfection of her pale olive skin, glowing golden in the dimness of the room. I sigh with pleasure as I approach and clamber up carefully to kneel at her side.

I fold another towel into a bolster and tuck it under her ankles to keep her spine properly aligned, then straddle her upper thighs, perching just below the gentle swells of her buttocks. The heavy weight of my cock dangles between my legs, prodding against her sex with every movement of my hips, making both of us squirm.

Reaching for a small bottle of coconut oil faintly scented with lavender, mint and rosemary, I pour some into my palm and rub my hands together, the subtle fragrance expanding as it warms. Starting at her lower back, I begin to slowly, steadily knead well demarcated columns of muscle beneath satin skin, circling and pressing outward with the heels of my hands and smoothing them back into place, over and over again until she is unable to suppress a groan of shameless pleasure.

Smiling at the sounds my hands draw out from her, I revel in the tactile delight of investigating every bit of the supple expanse beneath me. Slowly I move my way up her back, twisting my knuckles into some particularly stubborn knots I find beneath the edges of her scapulae.

"Ow!"

"Sorry, chérie. You have a lot of adhesions there and along your ribs because of all the coughing. Maybe we should get a real massage table so I can work them out properly."

"No, Br'er Rabbit, don't throw me into that briar patch," she mumbles into the towel, the reactive tension seeping away as all but the worst of the knots gradually start to loosen.

After a moment's consideration, I give up. "There is no part of that sentence that makes sense."

"Literary reference-explaining later. Ass-fucking now."

I burst out laughing. "Okay." Leaning on my arms to get more leverage, I increase the pressure over the defined slopes of her shoulders, then stiffen my thumbs as I dig into her trapezius and the base of her scalp.

Satisfied that her back muscles are as loose as I can get them, I sweep my hands up and down in long slow strokes, letting my fingers tease the soft undercurves of her breasts on each pass. Unconsciously she begins to undulate her hips into the bed.

Scooting lower, I liberally coat my hands with more of the oil and smear it over her buttocks, kneading deeply.

"Jesus fuck, that feels good."

Delighting in the softness and smoothness of her skin over bunching and rippling muscle, I smile. "Yes, it does." Bending forward, I butterfly a kiss between her shoulders, taking in through my mouth and nose the woodsy, floral and tingly notes of the oil blending with her sweat and essence. "It's going to feel even better very soon, I hope," I murmur into her ear.

She shivers.

I lighten my touch until I am barely skimming the curves of her buttocks, which are now pressing and grinding unapologetically into my hands. The scent of her arousal is somewhat muted thanks to the presence of the tampon, but the scarlet split of her sex and the swelling of her outer and inner lips are clearly visible between her legs. My mouth gone dry with want, I swallow hard. "Up on your knees, chérie."

"About fucking time," Cosima grumbles, making me laugh. She tosses aside the towel and rests her head on her arms, at the same time lifting her hips and widening her stance so that her ass is tantalizingly presented to me.

Spreading her cheeks with my hands, I bend forward and gently kiss her pink rosette, feeling it startle and quiver beneath my lips and imagining the tiny electric twitches sparking their way up her spine. "Oh, you like that, do you?" I whisper.

The miniature pursed mouth whispers back to me, silently beckoning, and I am only too glad to tease out its secrets with my tongue, rimming her softly at first, then flicking with the insistent tip until she is jerking toward me, a low moan rising from somewhere deep in her chest. Splaying the flat of my tongue against her raises the pitch of her voice into a whimper and elicits a swaying circling flexing of her hips with every infinitesimal sweeping pulse.

And then she is writhing and keening as I slowly persuade the tight little ring to open to the prising probing point of my tongue. Press retreat swirl plunge, again and again, until I am rewarded by being completely surrounded by her vigorously contracting walls.

She opens to me easily, so easily now. Her arms reach forward, the bones of her hands showing white as she uses her grip on the bars of the headboard to hunch back into me, welcoming the wriggling curling revolving advance of my tongue until it buries itself to the root in her continually spasming ass. The cords of her neck snap taut, her breath hissing harshly through bared teeth.

Exulting in every broken rasp of her breath and every involuntary gyration of her body, I am powerfully tempted to stay right here and make her dance upon my tongue. _I did tell you that it can take hours and hours to come this way._

Any thought of drawing out her pleasure is short-circuited by her strangled moan. "Delphine, just _fuck_ me!"

Withdrawing my tongue, I kiss the small of her back. "Whatever you want, Cosima."

Quickly I pile pillows and then a thick layer of towels beneath her for support. From the nightstand drawer, I grab a condom, tearing the packet open with my teeth and rolling it into place. Reaching for the bottle of Maximus, I messily anoint my fingers with a large glob of thick, heavy lube. Pressing the pad of one finger to her asshole, there is no resistance as she easily lets me in. Plunging and circling slowly, adding more lube all the while, I slip another finger into her, provoking a moan and the helpless palpitation of her ass.

Adding a small squirt of lube to my other hand, I reach around to dance my fingers over her rigidly swollen clit, making her cry out and buck into my touch. Trapping the turgid slippery bundle between two fingers, rubbing and circling, varying the timing and pressure to keep her off balance, it is not long before I can slide a third finger inside.

I form a channel with my fingers to funnel more lube into her, feeling it rapidly warm in her staggering heat. Pouring more heavy gel over my cock, I stroke it with my hand until the whole surface is slick and shining. "Ready?"

"Fuck, yes!"

My fingers surrendering their claim, I replace them with the head of my cock, pressing against her little pucker before it can gather back into itself. I return my other hand to her clit, plying it steadily as I slowly, slowly carve my way into her. "Breathe, Cosima. That's it, ma belle fille, try to push me out." Instantly she complies; I feel her opening to me, all the while observing her closely for any sign of pain or discomfort and finding none. We both cry out with pleasure at the jolt in her body when the broad ridged head finally pops through.

Panting, I stay in place, not driving in any farther, just pumping my hips gently so that every motion tugs the lip-lodged head of my cock against her ring, my fingers continuing to work her clit as she writhes and whimpers. "More!" she manages to croak.

I swallow a moan, the wedge of my fingers flying over her clit, my own clit aching at the unrelenting pressure and the awe inspiring sight of my cock disappearing into her bit by bit until I am fully seated at last. My hips fitting to the curve of her buttocks, my breasts pressed to the sweat-soaked planes of her back, my breath ragged and hot against her skin, I can feel her ass pulsing around me. "Are you okay?"

" _Fuck_ , yeah."

Slowing my fingers to match the pace of my hips, I begin to rock within her, gently at first, tiny thrusts, little circles, working her ever more open as she moves with me. Feeling the rhythm gripping her body, I gradually lengthen my thrusts, adding a rolling and swiveling motion with each stroke and gritting my teeth as I fight the overpowering urge to simply let go and rut into her.

Shuddering and twisting, gasping, crying out every time my thighs slap against her buttocks, the clutching of her hands at the headboard making the bed shake, her body goes rigid. "Oh, shit!" The hoarse scream gives way to formless wails that coalesce into a sustained howl as shockingly intense convulsions rip through her, the frantic grip and release of her ass nearly sending me over the edge as I fuck her through the violent quaking onslaught and its thousands of temblors until she is a quivering, helpless wreck.

Still keeping station buried within her, my fingers now protectively cupping the slickened curve of her bare mound, I carefully gather her to me and roll us onto our sides. Holding her so tightly that there is no separation between our bodies, I kiss her temple and croon nonsense into her ear.

"God damn, Dr. Cormier," she rasps, her breath still a shredded ruin. "Have I told you lately how much I fucking love you?"

I smile, pressing my lips to the nape of her neck. "No, but feel free to say it as often as you like. I fucking love you too, chérie."

I feel her going limply heavy as she drifts into sleep — only a temporary state, I know; I've learned from delicious experience that after a catnap she can recuperate with astonishing rapidity and an almost instant reigniting of her passion. My body still thrumming with unslaked need, I settle her in my arms, holding her closely and thinking, _Mine_.

* * *

 _To be continued... I mean that literally, because the next chapter will pick up almost immediately where this one leaves off.  
_


	10. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 10

We are so closely joined together, separated only by a thin layer of sweat, that I can tell immediately when awareness once again suffuses the slender frame clasped in my arms.

"Mmm." Inhaling deeply, she stretches with care, straightening herself into full extension from her toes up through the spreading reach of her fingers toward the headboard, then relaxing to fit exactly into the sheltering curve of my body. "Hey, Delphine?"

"Yes, Cosima?"

"Archer was wrong. _You_ are totally the Pelé of anal."

Unable to keep from giggling, I kiss her temple, smiling against the superbly tender skin. "How do you feel, chérie?"

"You know, it's the strangest thing. I feel exactly like a really hot chick shoved her ginormous cock up my ass and made me come so hard I passed out."

I slide a hand up the flat plain of her belly to cup one breast and tweak her nipple. "Brat."

"Hey!"

"Sorry."

"You don't sound the least bit sorry. There is, like, not even a nanoparticle of sorry in your voice. Matter of fact, you sound as though you might be just a little too pleased with yourself."

"Maybe I am. Besides, I seem to remember that you were the one who practically _demanded_ that I — "

She cranes her head around to stop my mouth with a kiss. We indulge in the unspoken communion of the gentle contact until the strain in her neck forces her to break away. I nuzzle into her shoulder, breathing in the exhilarating amalgam of scents and sprinkling tiny kisses over any skin within reach.

Every slightest movement makes her ass clutch around me, reminding me how acutely sensitive I am right now. I sweep aside her dreads and kiss my way across the back of her neck, tickling my lips by brushing them over the tiny fine curling tendrils springing along her hairline. "Raise your leg," I whisper in her ear.

Obligingly she bends her upper leg toward her chest, opening the split of her sex to my explorations. Reaching for the bottle on the nightstand, I squirt lube over my fingers and return them to her clit, making her exhale with cooing sounds of pleasure as I circle and stroke and flick the plump turgid little bundle.

In no time at all she is squirming and writhing on the thick spike of my cock. When I am absolutely sure her ass is still warm and pliable, I begin pulsing shallowly in and out of her in deliberate, short strokes that provoke deliciously clenching jolts through her body with every change in direction and tug at her ring. Every small inadvertent spasm, every sound she makes, every sight and feel of her response to me ratchets my own arousal higher and higher.

Trapping her swollen clit in the vee of two fingers and pumping it firmly and steadily, soon she is sobbing and gasping and moaning, her hips grinding against me as much as the limited range of motion in her current position allows. Her ass squeezes and milks my cock in time with my thrusts until I have to fight to control the urgency building within me, shuddering with the effort it takes not to give in to the barely restrained ferocity in my body.

"Delphine!"

Instantly I freeze, trying not to move even though every fiber of my being is desperately crying out for release. "What is it, chérie? Did I hurt you? Do you need me to pull out?"

"Fuck, no!" Cosima laughs shortly, a rusty grating sound filtered through the turmoil of her breath. "But I want to be able to see your face when you finally come in my ass."

I lick my lips, my mouth suddenly dry. "Tell me what you want me to do."

"Turn us over, babe. I'll take care of the rest."

At her indication, I lever us over onto our backs. Panting, she manages to sit upright, making us both groan at the shift in pressure. Carefully, with a series of smoothly controlled moves worthy of an Olympic gymnast, she pivots on my cock and at the same time swings her legs around so that she winds up straddling me, balancing as lightly and easily as an expert equestrian on her mount.

I have to laugh at the triumphant expression on her face. "Is that something they teach in the advanced yoga classes?"'

"In my special brand of yoga, they do. Besides," she smiles as she bends to brush a kiss over my lips, then returns to her post, "you shouldn't have to do _all_ the work around here." As her hips begin to rock, I steady her with my hands at the narrow taper of her waist, moving with her, small thrusts and circles that grind the base of my cock into my aching sex.

Sweat breaks out over both of us, running down her flanks, pooling over my chest and belly. She draws up her knees until they are parallel to my torso. Slowly she leans back onto her hands, positioning herself so that I can see the beautiful lines of her body, the enticing swaying of her breasts, the rippling of her abdominal muscles, the unimaginably erotic vision of my cock's thick length slipping in and out of her tight little opening.

Arching into her, straining with arousal, I return my fingers to the scarlet swell of her clit, making her cry out hoarsely. Rolling and swiveling her hips in a series of sinuous curves as she meets each stroke, her arms start to quiver as I find a deep urgent rhythm inside her. Panting raggedly, I answer each bewitching motion with the continual pistoning of my hips, my heart threatening to pound its way out of my chest in time with our raw coupling.

I feel her tighten around me, jerking out of control. Tension builds exponentially in my pouring, grasping cunt and trapped clit, the knotting in my belly giving vent to itself as a low howl as great wrenching shudders tear through her. Shrieking, she convulses, rocking back and forth, her ass gripping me so tightly that at times I cannot move. A litany of incoherent sounds tears from my throat when my unbelievably swollen clit shatters against the base of my cock and I come so violently inside her that I am temporarily blinded by a red haze that descends over my vision.

She collapses forward on top of me, clutching and trembling, her breath hot and harsh against my neck. "Holy fucking shit, Dr. Cormier."

My hands shake as I wrap my arms tightly around her, the intense paroxysms wringing through her body matching mine. Gasping raggedly, I kiss her, taking solace and sustenance from her mouth. The scent of sweat and sex surrounds us in an intoxicating miasma for long minutes as breath and pulse gradually slow to normal and we return to ourselves, twitching and shivering with the aftermath of pleasure all the while.

"Cosima?"

"Mmhmm?"

"I really should check to make sure you're all right. I may have been a little too rough with you."

"Don't wanna. Too fucked out to move. And I loved every second of it." She tucks her head into the bend of my neck. "Can't we just stay like this?"

Softly I kiss her forehead. "You would regret it in an hour or so, and then I'd have to call 911, and then EMS would have to use the Jaws of Life to separate us, and then we would probably wind up all over FaceBook and Instagram, and — "

"All right, all right, you win." Tipping up her head, she kisses me, grinning naughtily. "But only because in about a minute I'm going to have to fart like a constipated Holstein."

I start to giggle. "It's okay, you know, I don't mind."

"Trust me, you are not prepared for a Dutch oven of this magnitude. When the new studies come out about how a sudden increase in atmospheric methane is causing accelerated depletion of the ozone layer, they'll be able to track it to this fart. I mean, no shit, I'm seriously afraid of causing an explosion with all these candles in here."

Laughing helplessly, I roll us to one side, then cautiously pull out, her ass clinging greedily to me one last time before finally letting go. "Va t'en, petite peste." I give her a playful swat across her buttocks, making her squeal with outrage and laughter. Sticking out her tongue at me, she tumbles from the bed and skips bouncily out of the room and down the hall.

Moving in a much more leisurely manner, I stand and stretch, giggling to myself as my cock bobs and sways with the movement. I strip off the condom and toss it into the trash after verifying that there is no trace of blood or really anything other than lube. Unbuckling my harness, I rub absently at the dark red marks left behind on my skin.

In the bathroom, I remove the fat purple-streaked dildo from the harness so I can clean it thoroughly. Wiping down the soft leather straps with a damp cloth, I hang it from a hook to dry. I wash and moisturize my face, then brush my teeth and run a comb through my hair. After a quick pass of a wet washcloth under my arms and between my legs — what my best friend Sophie used to call a whore's bath, I recall fondly — I head back to the bedroom, dimming my lamp and extinguishing candles on the nightstands and dressers.

Briefly I survey the wreck of the bed and decide that we will spend a much more comfortable and pleasant night if we don't have to try to avoid puddles of lube and who-knows-what-else. I fold and set aside the duvet and the pillows, then pull off the sheets, replacing them with fresh ones from the linen closet. After fluffing our pillows and shaking out and repositioning the duvet, I take the pile of dirty sheets down to the laundry room and drop them into the washer to soak overnight.

By the time I return, Cosima has already tucked herself in, looking tiny and lost in the vast expanse of the bed. I slide under the covers, turn off the lamp, then wait for her to scoot over and snuggle into her place at my side. Wrapping my arm around her, I press a kiss to her temple, inhaling the scent of her hair and the faint traces of her lavender soap. "Everything okay, chérie? No pain, no bleeding?"

She shakes her head. " 'm fine. Even Edna finally decided to settle down." Soft lips languidly explore the sensitive spots at my neck and throat. "I feel fucking amazing. _You_ are fucking amazing."

"I have a very inspiring partner in crime."

"Long as I inspire you to keep doing rude and vile things to me, I'll be happy to plead guilty as charged and throw myself on the lack of mercy of the court, Your Honor."

"Incorrigible reprobate." Trailing the tips of my nails up and down her back, I smile against her skin. "You're going to be sore tomorrow."

"Totally worth it," she mumbles, burrowing closer. Before long she is snoring softly, her small body growing heavily slack against me.

 _Yes, you are_ , I think as I drift off to sleep.

* * *

 _Next chapter: just a very lazy, very domestic Sunday. With smut, of course. And pancakes.  
_


	11. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 11

I can feel her watching me.

Slowly I open my eyes. A mottled gray haze obscures the skyline usually visible through the wide windows, visual confirmation of weather forecasts that have been heralding several days of heavy sleet and snow. Cosima provides a much more pleasant sight, lying on her side with her head propped up by an elbow on her pillow, squinting slightly and smiling. "Good morning, sleepyhead."

Vain as a cat under her avid gaze, I stretch voluptuously, arching until my shoulders pop and then reverting to my warmly muzzy state. I reach for her, cupping her cheek in my palm to trace the curve of her mouth with the tip of my thumb. "Good morning, chérie. How do you feel?"

Her grin widens, baring nearly all her teeth. "Like someone plowed me a new backbone by railing my ass last night."

Chuckling, I smile back at her. "Not too sore?"

A shake of her head sets her dreads dancing. "Only in the best way." Moving far more agilely and gracefully than I would be capable of right now, she straddles my hips and leans in to kiss me deeply.

And pulls back when I frown.

She winds a hand into my hair, stroking. The expression on her face is improbably ingenuous. "Something wrong, babe?"

"You know very well what's wrong. You ate my croissant. Probably all the rest of the macarons, too, if I had to guess."

At least she manages to look sheepish. "Woke up coughing in the middle of the night. It was a pretty nasty bout, so I dabbed some shatter. Might have gotten a little too medicated too quickly 'cause I wound up with a wicked case of the munchies. I was going to take just a little bite out of your croissant but it was so damned good that I'd finished it before I realized it, and then the macarons were calling my name. Like, literally. They sounded almost exactly like Alvin and the Chipmunks. You know, that really high-pitched three-part harmony. In the key of D-major, if you were wondering. I checked it with the piano app on my phone."

"Did they sound different from the Pop Tarts that sang 'Down By the Riverside' to you the other — wait, dammit, now you're just trying to distract me."

Wickedly nimble fingers traverse the shallow valley between my breasts, notching my pulse up into another gear. "Is it working?"

"No." My voice is unconvincing even to my ears. Especially when she starts to kiss where her fingers had just been exploring, the warm graze of her breath ghosting over my skin as she intersperses her kisses with tiny nips of her teeth.

"Besides," she says against my chest, "I didn't eat them _all_. I left some for you."

"'Some'?"

"Okay, one."

"One. You left one. One is not 'some,' chérie."

Sucking an instantly hardening nipple into the heat of her mouth, she licks and bites at it gently. "The coughing was really, _really_ bad. Almost made me black out. Actually horked up part of a bronchial cast, which was kind of gross and awesome at the same time. If it's any consolation," she says in a small voice, ducking her head and looking up at me through her long lashes with hugely rounded eyes, "I feel way better now."

Oh, god, not the puppy dog eyes. Cosima knows damned well that I can't resist the puppy dog eyes. And that her mouth on my breast is driving me crazy. I sigh. "At least tell me you saved me one of the salted caramels."

She moves to suck and nibble at my other nipple, sending a fresh jolt of pleasure straight to my center. " ... Maybe?"

Slowly she kisses her way down my belly, nipping at the involuntarily bunching and gathering of the deep muscles beneath skin that thrills with every elusive touch of her mouth and random brush of her dreads. Settling between my legs, she uses the bracing of her elbows to urge them farther apart.

My hips flex, the muscles in my thighs trembling with anticipation and poorly restrained demand as her fingers delve through my already damp curls to tease between my folds. Her other hand slides around beneath me to play her fingers over the cleft at the base of my spine, making me shiver. Barely conscious of having flung one leg over her narrow shoulder, the first touch of her lips to my sex elicits a moan of brazen hunger from deep within my chest. As though sensing that my desire is far too strong to want her to linger, the wriggling and swirling of her knowing tongue short-circuits any coherent mental processes and sends ever-widening ripples from my center outward.

Her face is soon shining with the thick hot flood from my cunt pouring its want all over her. I fight not to crush her head between my thighs when she begins rasping the flat of her tongue over my clit, brutally coursing back and forth and suckling hard in time with the jerking rhythm of my hips. My hands fist into the sheets, all-consuming desire renouncing any remaining shreds of gentleness as she lays claim to the pulsing heart of my need. Gut-clenching tension gathers at my core, torquing my pleasure until my entire body feels as though it is tautly hovering. The immeasurably breathless shimmering moment implodes when she scrapes the barest edges of her teeth over the distended wet strain of my clit, slamming me flat to the bed in the inexorable grip of the convulsions that break me. Crying out hoarsely, waves of wracking, uncontrollable spasms roar through me again and again as I come so very hard against her mouth, my empty cunt contracting wildly and painting her with its copious flow.

"Cosima, come here," I gasp when I am finally able to speak, reaching a still shaking hand toward her. Obligingly she clambers up and drapes her slight weight atop me, settling between my legs so that her silkily swollen, weeping sex glides against mine. Clinging to her, I kiss her blindly, tasting myself in her mouth and over her face until the harsh seething of my labored breath lulls at last and we lie together, bound by the exorbitant spend of wanton hunger and sweat and the perfect fit of her body fused with mine.

* * *

Warm and loose-limbed from the shower, still tingling all over thanks to our earlier exertions, I saunter barefoot into the kitchen to make a cup of coffee. The first rich, almost inky black mouthful is bliss; I force myself to savor it slowly, feeling consciousness trickle into my veins along with the caffeine.

Verifying the presence of the sole survivor of Cosima's macaron pillage — and noting that she did leave me a salted caramel one, after all — I replace the outer sleeve of the narrow box and put the whole thing on top of the refrigerator, toward the back and well out of her immediate reach.

"Hey!"

I raise an eyebrow at her, trying to keep a straight face at the sight of her indignant pout. "Just in case you get any ideas. Or another case of the munchies."

She slinks into my embrace. I wrap my arms tightly around her slender frame, stroking her back through her thick fleece robe. "Bitch," she says without affront, nibbling at the juncture of my neck and shoulder.

"Bitch with no breakfast," I remind her, nuzzling into her hair; her dreads are still a little damp and fragrant. Letting my hands drift down, I settle them at the curves of her ass, rubbing slow circles over the firm rounds.

"You're not going to let that go, are you. How about I make you some pancakes? With lots of butter and that really dope maple syrup we got from the dude at St. Lawrence Market." Her voice drops half an octave. "And thick cut applewood smoked bacon, the way I made it for you that one time, with brown sugar and cayenne. Watching you eat it was totally a religious experience."

Tipping up her face so I can kiss her softly, I smile. "That sounds wonderful."

"Cool. Let me go get dressed and I'll run down to the corner store to pick up a box of pancake mix."

I blink. "Box?"

"Seriously, dude?" She tilts her head. "Don't tell me you've never made pancakes before."

"Of course I have. Both the American and the French kind."

"French? Do you mean, like, crêpes?"

"French pancakes are a little like crêpes but slightly thicker, more raised. Still very thin and light compared to the kind you're used to. But French or American, what do they have to do with a box?"

She rolls her eyes. "Right, I forgot that I'm dating Martha Effing Stewart. Except, like, the hot, French, not-scary version." Running her hands up my back, one winds up kneading the nape of my neck, the other tangling gently in my hair. She pulls me eagerly toward her into another lingering kiss. Surrounding her and holding her tightly, I hum a low pleased murmur as her tongue slips past the lenient barriers of my teeth to seek out the shapes and textures of my mouth. After a long delicious interval, she smiles up at me. "Pancakes were one of the first things I learned to make as a little kid, the first thing I was allowed to do in the kitchen without supervision. It was sort of a Sunday ritual with my dad: I would get out the Bisquick and make them while he cooked bacon and eggs and made us coffee. Or, in my case, a big glass of milk with a splash of coffee in it. Then we would eat the pancakes with tons of Country Crock and Aunt Jemima. Fake butter and artificial syrup," she says, forestalling my next question with a wry quirk of her lips. "You and your grandmother would have been horrified."

I brush a tiny kiss over the gathered corner of her mouth. "Of course not, chérie. It sounds like a lovely ritual, and a wonderful memory." Her glasses are slightly askew from our embrace; I straighten them and skim my fingers over the soft curve of her cheek. "All right, I have a proposition for you. I will make you pancakes like the ones Mémé used to make for me. If you don't care for them, I'll go down to the store and buy a box of — what did you call it? Bisquick?"

Trapping one of my fingers between her lips to kiss it, she smiles. "Now you're making fun of me."

I smile in return. "Only a little."

Perching on a barstool and leaning on her elbows, Cosima watches raptly as I pull a well seasoned carbon steel pan from the ceiling rack and drop in a scant spoonful of clarified butter. While the pan heats, I pour two eggs, roughly a quarter liter of milk and a healthy shot of vanilla extract into the blender and whirl it together. Whisking a scoop of AP and a couple heaping spoonsful of buckwheat flour in a small bowl with a bit of sugar, a dash of baking powder and a pinch of salt, I blend the dry mixture into the wet just until it is smooth.

Carefully I pour a dollop of batter into the center of the pan, lifting it from the burner and tilting it around until the bottom is evenly coated with a thin layer. Letting it cook until the top is dry, I tease up the edge of the pancake with the tips of my nails, then shake the pan to loosen it, giving it a flick of my wrist.

Except, as always happens with the first pancake, rather than flipping neatly, it sticks and tears. Shrugging, I scrape out the pieces, eating one and handing the rest to Cosima. "La première, comme on dit, c'est pour le chien." I wipe out the pan and start over with more clarified butter and batter.

"Mmmmm," she says with her mouth full. "I hate to admit it but that is way better than the boxed stuff."

"Good to know that you can be flexible about _some_ things."

She gives me a dirty look. "I can be extremely flexible, I'll have you know." One eyebrow arches. "As long as I get what I want."

The second pancake behaves, landing perfectly with its attractively browned surface face up. I let the other side cook for a bit more, then slide it out onto a plate, smear it with a spoonful of Nutella, roll it up neatly, and hold it out to her.

Her eyes close as she takes a huge bite. "Oh, man. Even if I weren't, like, stupid in love with you, I would totally let you do me just for making those."

Leaning over the bar, I kiss her, enjoying the flavors of butter and chocolate and hazelnut in the sweetness of her mouth. "It's nice that you have such high standards, chérie," I say dryly, starting on another pancake.

"Keep cooking, Martha, and you might find out what else I'd be willing to do."

* * *

 _Next chapter: let it snow, let it snow, let it snow..._


	12. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 12

"Whoa, dude, it's really coming down."

I join her by the wide sliding glass door, wrapping my arms around her from behind and resting my cheek against her temple. Fat downy flakes swirl sideways and scud diagonally, already accumulating in drifts on the terrace and frosting the furniture with a thick layer white fluff. "Pretty, isn't it?"

Cosima leans back against me, absently caressing my forearm. "It snows sometimes in San Francisco, but never like this. When I was little we lived on Cape Breton Island for a few months while my mom was doing research on migration patterns of the local avifauna. That was the first time I'd ever seen really deep snow. It was magical, like I'd landed in Narnia. I found some kids about my age who lived a couple of miles down the road and we had snowball fights, made snowmen and snow angels, the whole thing. But then we got slammed by this huge blizzard. Everything shut down and for days we were stuck in our tiny scuzzy rental house with snow piled up to the roof, no power, no heat and nothing to eat except a box of stale saltine crackers and a bunch of canned shit that had expired, like, years before. Kinda killed the charm, you know?"

Slipping a hand under her sweater, I play my fingertips across the flat of her belly, describing slow circles and abstract patterns over silky skin. "That actually sounds like it could have been fun. I can think of far worse fates than to be isolated on a beautiful remote island sharing a tiny house in the snow with you, chérie."

Taut muscle jumps under my touch as she laughs. "Picture two shellshocked academics with limited domestic skills, at their wits' end and drinking cup after cup of shitty instant coffee while watching their bored hyperactive daughter bounce off the walls all day. It wasn't pretty. Probably not a coincidence that most of Mom's subsequent research trips were to tropical destinations." Turning, she drapes her arms around my neck and tips up her head to kiss me. "So what would you have done, if you'd been there?"

I nibble gently at her lower lip, then kiss the end of her nose, making her eyes cross briefly. "Hmm. First I'd probably dig a tunnel into the yard and use the displaced snow to form blocks to build an igloo, one that was big enough for both of us so we'd have someplace to escape and give your poor parents some privacy. Split saplings and skin the inner bark from birch trees to make snowshoes. Make snares to catch squirrels and rabbits in the woods, then build a fire on a green-wood platform with a spit to roast them. Maybe set traps for lobsters and crabs off the coast, if we could find a suitable boat. Harvest seaweed and edible lichens to put into stews and soups, or freeze-dry them for later. Things like that."

"Holy mother of fuck. I was totally off. You're not Martha Effing Stewart, you're Crocodile Effing Dundee. I'll bet you were, like, a ninja-level Girl Scout, or whatever the French equivalent is."

Resting my forehead against hers, I smile. "We do have Scouts and Girl Guides in France. But no, I never joined. My grandmother taught me all kinds of things she'd learned growing up. Her family was very poor, though it didn't really matter because everyone else in their village was poor, too. They had to make or raise or catch or barter for almost everything they owned and ate."

"Shit. And I thought _I_ had a colorful and unconventional background, being the product of overeducated pot-smoking hippies." She tilts her head. "While I was marching in Divest Now! protests and scoring crappy weed from the guys on Market Street who would sling to someone who was obviously a minor, you were probably, like, learning how to skin a bear with a spork and card and spin its fur into wool to crochet into blankets. So how is it that you are also the most innately sophisticated and effortlessly glamorous woman I have ever had the inestimable pleasure to know and fuck?"

As always, her phrasing catches me off guard and tickles me unexpectedly. "When she was twenty, Mémé married a rich man — my father's father — and thoroughly enjoyed throwing herself into navigating society and the trappings of wealth and privilege with as much energy and focus as she had on surviving her early life. Those lessons, she passed to me as well. But she never forgot where she came from, and she never took for granted what she had. Even in their big house in Lille, she always kept flocks of chickens and ducks and grew almost all their vegetables and fruits in her garden and orchards. She was adamant that my education come first, but I think she also wanted to make sure I could take care of myself so that I wouldn't need to depend on anyone, no matter what the situation."

"She sounds like a total badass. I bet I would have loved her." Cosima's face is soft, her expression luminous. "And I bet you still miss her."

"Every day." I smile crookedly, the sting of unshed tears pricking my eyes. "She would have loved you, too." Just then, my phone emits a plaintive _miaou_ , breaking the mood. With an apologetic glance at her, I slide it out of my pocket, confirming the Grocery Gateway delivery man's identity via the lobby camera and letting him into the elevator. He arrives with a handcart bearing a pile of boxes, which he unloads onto the kitchen counters at my direction while I compare the contents to my checklist. Cheerfully he accepts my tip and takes the empty boxes with him when he leaves.

Hands on hips, she regards the unwieldy mountain of goods. "Seriously? Usually you buy just enough food to last us for a day or two. And since when do you have shit delivered, anyway? You're the only person I know who actually _likes_ grocery shopping."

"I didn't want us to get stranded with nothing fresh on hand in case we do get snowed in. And yes, I prefer to pick things out myself, but I gave very specific directions when I placed the order. Besides, would _you_ want to go out in this weather?"

She eyes the window, where pellets of sleet are now peppering the glass with tiny _tik-tiktiktik-tiktik_ sounds. "You have a point. So what happens if we lose power?"

"If the power outage lasts longer than 12 hours, the perishables will go out onto the terrace in insulated containers. And we will make love in front of the fireplace all day and night to stay warm."

Sidling into my embrace, she kisses me, smiling against my lips. "Mmm. I like the way you think, Dr. Cormier."

Reluctantly I let her go so I can put away the groceries and supplies, except for a small packet of dried cherries. Pouring the cherries into a saucepan along with some bourbon, I bring them to a boil, then take them off the heat, stirring in a bit of almond extract before putting the lid on the pan and leaving it on the range.

"Whatcha making?"

I flicker an eyebrow at her. "You'll have to wait and see."

Her recalcitrant scowl makes me laugh.

Quickly I wipe down the counters and make sure everything is squared away. Holding out a hand to Cosima, I stroll with her to the living room, stopping by the long narrow fireplace to ignite it before joining her on the sofa. Snuggling into my side, she makes a happy sound against the curve of my neck as we stretch out at full length cradled by overstuffed cushions. She reaches for her phone; soon the air fills with the lushness of Joyce DiDonato's and Patrizia Ciofi's voices twining in gorgeous, sensuous harmony.

"No 'beeps and boops' this morning?" I press my lips to her temple.

Careful teeth nip at my throat. "I like listening to your stuff sometimes. It's good to switch things up every once in a while. Feels more like a Handel kind of day, anyway."

Managing to extract my phone from my hip pocket without dislodging the slender warm form in my arms, reluctantly I begin to sort through the backlog of emails and texts that have accumulated since yesterday afternoon. Cosima does the same; I scrupulously avoid peeking over her shoulder at her screen but can't help looking up when she starts giggling. "What is it? Is someone trying to enlarge your penis naturally? Does the exiled Rwandan prince need you to send him your bank account information so he can deposit the royal treasury for safekeeping?"

"Even better. They want to increase my sex drive. I can learn hundreds of 'ancient Oriental secrets' for just $19.99."

Laughing, I squeeze her tightly. "Chérie, if your sex drive increases any more, you will have to call for an ambulance to cart away my smiling, desiccated corpse."

"Haven't you heard the phrase, 'It takes two to tango'? I'd be in the same state as you. Be a hell of a way to go, though, wouldn't it?"

"Certainly one of the most pleasurable. Death by orgasmic excess is probably not something the coroner sees every day."

She cranes up her neck to kiss me softly, then contentedly tucks her head back into the crook of my shoulder.

With a sigh, I resume wading through my messages, the vast majority of them work related. The somewhat amorphous scope of my current responsibilities would seem to be expanding beyond helping Rachel to oversee the Leda clones; I imagine her glee in shunting off to me the more tedious administrative aspects of Dyad management. There are an astonishing number of grant proposals, most of them poorly written and preposterously impracticable; I forward them to my assistant so she can send out denial letters. One intrigues me, though, a well thought out and professionally presented project that seeks to combine mushroom mycelia with industrial-scale 3-D printers to form water-, mold- and fire-resistant building materials; that one, I send to R&D with a note stressing that Dyad is only to examine the proposal's hypothesis for possible further inquiry, _not_ aggressively take it over or reverse-engineer the technology in order to file for a preemptive patent.

Next is a parade of resumes and job applications, most of which are so similar that scrolling through them quickly becomes tedious and repetitive. Again and again I find myself startling with a jerk of my head, having to reread files as my eyelids grow heavier and heavier.

When I wake, the lights and music are off, the flat eerily silent. The sky is a curious yellowish gray non-color filtering through a lacy curtain of steadily falling snow; it's so quiet that I can actually hear the flakes pattering against the windows. Cosima dozes, draped neatly at my side with an arm flung possessively over my torso, but stirs when I try to swallow a yawn.

"Better start building your igloo," she mumbles against my neck. "But just so you know, I'm not eating any bunnies."

I kiss the top of her head. "No bunnies on the terrace, anyway. A pigeon or two, perhaps."

Carefully I untangle myself and find my feet, draping a fleece throw over her before heading to the bathroom. I note that the floor is still warm. Thank goodness for thermal mass — even with no power to the radiant heating grid, it will take a considerable time for the layers of concrete and marble to release all their stored heat.

I am also thankful that the water is still running and the plumbing still works. The temperature is unlikely to drop low enough to freeze the pipes, but just in case, I leave one of the sinks dripping slowly.

Returning to the living room, I am arrested by the sight of Cosima sprawling naked by the fireplace. She flashes her incandescent smile. "I was getting cold without you. Thought you might be able to tap into that vast store of practical knowledge to figure out a way to warm me up." Waggling her brow at me, she beckons.

Drawn irresistibly to her, I yank my t-shirt over my head and discard it somewhere, shedding my loose knit pants, underwear and socks along the way and pausing to let her gaze prowl up and down the length of my body. "Will that do for a start?"

"Very nicely," she says hoarsely, licking her lips as she reaches for me.

* * *

 _Next chapter: what do they care how much it may storm? They've got their love_ — _and their inexhaustible hunger for each other_ — _to keep them warm...  
_


	13. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 13

Shivery sensations zigzag through me like summer lightning. Shuddering at the contact of her body, the unceasing glide and wet slip of her sex and distended clit against mine, I pull her even closer, moaning when my nipples rub tight and hard against hers. Still panting, I kiss my way slowly over each delicate feature of her face, tugging with exquisitely careful lips at her nose ring to make her laugh, and finally ending up at her mouth. Instinctively she opens to welcome me, our tongues coiling and dancing together, gently exploring.

Gradually the harsh rasp of our breath and the thundering of our hearts evens and slows. Smiling against the soft swell of her lips, my fingers trace light pathways up and down her back, smoothing along the curving lines of her waist. Beneath sweat-cooling skin, her lithe lean frame is almost glowing with heat. "Warm enough?" I say innocently, sweeping aside her dreads to cup her cheek.

The corner of her mouth quirks as she rubs her face catlike into my hand. "Thermonuclear fusion reactor's got nothing on you. Gotta say, though," she turns her head to press a kiss to my palm, lingering so I can feel the outline of her mouth, the warm caress of her breath, "this method of creating heat is a lot less efficient, judging by the number of repeated trials needed to produce the desired effect."

"I beg to differ, chérie." With the trembling tips of my fingers, I stroke the line of her jaw, grazing my thumb over the pillowy plumpness of her lower lip. "Thermonuclear fusion takes far more kinetic energy to overcome the Coulomb barrier to initiate and contain the reaction than it actually produces. Whereas all I have to do is be in the same room with you, or catch a glimpse of you, or even just think of you, and instantly I am on the verge of spontaneously igniting. It's an inherently more energetically viable process, you see."

Cosima kisses me roughly, hungrily. "Oh, my god," she murmurs against my lips, "you are so fucking hot when you speak geek, Dr. Cormier."

I moan softly into our kiss, my pulse coming alive again. Sliding my hands down to surround the high rounded slopes of her breasts, slowly I begin to knead at superbly smooth firm flesh, teasing tugging rolling the springing nipples between my fingers until she is arching into my touch.

"Hang on," she says, sitting up with a groan. I bleat in protest, hands stranded in midair as they stretch futilely toward her. She bends to kiss me softly. "Not going anywhere, babe. Just want to give you a change of scenery." Rolling to the side, she reaches over to a nearby armchair to grab a large square throw pillow and tuck its firm support under my hips, raising them several inches off the floor. Turning around, she moves to kneel with her legs on either side of my head, cradling it between her thighs and leaning forward to brace her weight on her elbows, making me gasp as my painfully hard nipples brush against the soft skin of her belly.

Completely surrounded by the sight and scent and electric innervation of her arousal, I take a moment to marvel at this new perspective. Steadying her hips with my hands, guiding and supporting her as she carefully lowers her glistening sex toward my mouth, I kiss my way along silky skin drawn tautly over the beautifully delineated muscles of her inner thighs, then over the smoothly bare apex of her mound, teasing but not approaching the scarlet protrusion of her clit. Slowly I sweep my tongue up through her folds; at the same time she parts me with her hands and begins nibbling licking suckling swirling probing. Small muffled whimpers escape my throat at the delicious assault on my senses.

My tongue delights in working and painting and tracing its way around her cunt, playing the tip just inside her hungrily beckoning entrance and feeding on her arousal. Caressing the deep muscles of her buttocks and flanks with my hands, my hips swivel and sway with increasingly twitchy lurching movements at every touch of her tongue. Breathing is already a struggle but I cannot bear even the thought of losing the intensity of this connection with her, knowing with absolute surety that she craves it every bit as much as I do.

As my tongue painstakingly traverses the length of her weeping sex to explore every fold and crevice, her cunt pours all over me, soaking the lower half of my face in her come. Unable to resist, I thrust my tongue into her to the root, tasting the faintly metallic-tinged sweet salt tang of her depths, enjoying the soft churn of her smooth muscular walls pulsing and clinging and swelling around me. As I slowly plunge in and out, circling and wriggling deep within her, I can feel my own cunt thickening and weeping with desire at the steady soft thrust of her tongue against my thrumming clit.

Two slim fingers slide easily inside me, curling and swiveling and pulling long slow shudders from deep within. Her thumb replaces her tongue on my clit, circling the fat little bundle of nerves. Not giving me any time to adjust, she pulses her tongue against my asshole, making me gasp, my abdominal muscles writhing as my body jolts and shudders with agonizing pleasure.

Licking up and down the sides of her clit, softly circling the tip, lashing the swollen little bundle back and forth, I am absolutely bathed in her glorious scent. The slender body balanced atop me judders with tension even as she glides three, then four fingers within me, rocking and plunging, her thumb working my clit incessantly. Moving faster, the fluid undulation of our bodies becomes hungrier, more uneven, the distinct pleasures of her touch at my clit and cunt and ass blurring and merging in a haze of overwhelming sensation. Choking and sobbing for breath, I latch my lips onto her clit, the flat of my tongue working it from side to side, feeling her beginning to jerk out of control.

Impaled on her hand that twists with every thrust so that her knuckles scrape hard against the front wall of my cunt, my ass quivering with electric twitches at every slightest flick of her tongue, I arch beneath her, lunging violently and surging into each stroke of her hand. My cunt starts to clench, squeezing her fingers cruelly as my entire body quakes, bowing into a rictus of pleasure, my hips lifting in offering, surging snapping uncontrollably with a long drawn out cry as the pulsing rush of sensation finally grips me and shatters me apart beneath her.

Dimly I am aware that my blunt fingernails are spurring into her buttocks and the cable-taut muscles of her thighs, leaving shallow scarlet crescent-moons embedded in her skin, as if they could drive her sex into me any more deeply. Bucking ferociously against her mouth and gripping her fingers bloodless with the continual contractions of my cunt, I curl my tongue around the straining shaft of her clit and suck hard, rhythmically, again and again in time to the rasping drag of her breath

Feeling as much as hearing the howl that tears from her chest, her hips corkscrew wildly as waves of release crash through her, my tongue lashing and flicking at her to draw out her convulsions as long as possible until she is sobbing for breath and helpless to do anything but cling to me and come. Half drowning in the incredible wetness pouring from her sex, lightly I stroke my tongue through the slick hot folds of her sex. My hands caressing her flanks to gentle her down, I feel the tremors in her thighs as the shuddering muscles slowly bleed themselves of the tremendous strain of holding herself in check until she is heavily still atop me.

Long, heated moments are lost in the deliciously exhausted Möbius twine of our bodies and limbs, and only when oxygen threatens to completely leave my lungs do my addled senses return. Reluctantly I push up on her hips in silent but insistent request; she obliges by raising up on her hands and knees and turning around once more. Tugging the undoubtedly ruined throw pillow out from beneath my hips, she drapes herself over me so that I can kiss and hold her properly, letting me taste myself all over her face even as I return the favor. My arms gather at the small of her back to pull her to me tightly; her thigh nudges between my legs to press firmly against my dripping center, smearing my hip lavishly with her own wetness.

"Doing okay, Dr. Cormier?" Gently Cosima brushes sweat- and come-soaked hair away from my face, her nearsighted eyes shining as she locks her gaze with mine.

I slide a hand behind the nape of her neck, kneading slender corded muscle until she purrs. "Oh, yes." Clutching at the press of the small body grounding me to the floor, sweat mingling with come sliding us against each other in a sublimely messy squish and rub, I pull her into a deep, lingering kiss. "Do you know, this is the first time that position has actually worked for me."

She smiles against my lips. "That's 'cause you never tried it with a girl before. Boys either suffocate you if they're on top, or they get too distracted to eat you out properly while you suck them off if they're on the bottom. And most of them are pretty useless if they come first — everything shuts down and it's like they forget they still have a mouth and fingers."

"Very true." I hold her closely as she burrows into the crook of my shoulder. "Maybe I should make a list."

"A list? Of what?"

"Of every position and carnal activity that I used to think I didn't care for. I have a feeling that most if not all of them would be far more appealing and effective with a girl." Pressing a kiss to her temple, I inhale the incomprehensibly complex amalgamation of scents surrounding us. "Well, one girl in particular, perhaps."

"Now who's the bee charmer?" she murmurs, her lips and tongue tracing intricate patterns down one side of my neck and up the other. "You should totally do it. We could call it the Cosima Sutra or something."

I pinch her bottom, prompting a feeble yip of protest. "It's my list, so why would we name it after you?"

"Because it might be your conceptual framework, but it's going to be my participation and empirical investigation that validates your theory. We could get Felix to illustrate it. Publish it, sell millions of copies and retire to Belize and spend the rest of our days on the beach working out themes and variations for the sequels."

Laughing, I tip up her chin so I can kiss her, my mouth gently demanding against hers. "Egotistical brat."

" 's not being egotistical if I can back it up. You know I'm right."

Trailing the tips of my nails in random patterns over her back, I cast an eye out the windows, the dimming light sullen and gray, and sigh. "I'd better take care of a few things before it gets dark. You don't have to get up, chérie. Stay here by the fire if you like."

"And miss the chance to watch you go into French Grizzly Adams mode?" Kissing me again, she gives me a brilliant smile. "No fucking way."

* * *

 _Next chapter: the Cophine version of roughing it, and seduction by S'mores..._


	14. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 14

"I don't suppose we have any graham crackers?"

I watch, trying not to laugh as she hops into the air a couple of times to shine her flashlight into the back of an upper shelf. Closing that cabinet, she moves on to the next one. Hop, hop, _click_. "Considering that I don't know what they are, I doubt it, unless you've bought them for yourself. I think there is a packet of Speculoos and a box of Vinta crackers in the pantry?"

" _So_ not the same thing." Having looked through all the cabinets, she rounds on me with a sigh, a comically woebegone look on her face. "And you probably don't have anything as prosaic as marshmallows and Hershey bars."

"No marshmallows or Hershey bars. But," I root through a drawer and unearth a mostly full bag of assorted Ghirardelli squares left over from our Christmas party weeks ago, "we do have these."

"Huh. Those could actually be, like, really, really good." She shakes her head decisively, making her dreads dance. "Nope. In order for you to have the proper seminal S'mores experience, they must be made with the proper seminal ingredients. All right, I'm gonna run down to the corner store — "

"Cosima, you are _not_ going out in this weather! The cold will exacerbate your — "

"Kidding, babe." She kisses me softly. "I'd probably pass out from hypoventilation or mucous hypersecretion as soon as I stepped foot out the door. Or just cough up my lungs in huge bloody chunks before I get even halfway up the stairs." Pulling out her phone, she taps and swipes at her screen.

Opening the refrigerator only long enough to grab two eggs and a container of milk, I note that the temperature of the interior is still at 2°C; it will be quite some time before I have to think about transferring things to the terrace. I butter the interior of a medium-sized enameled cast iron pot, then scatter the cherries, now plumply rehydrated with bourbon, over the bottom. Putting the milk back into the fridge, I turn around in time to see Cosima filching a cherry out of the pot. Before I can say anything, she pops it into her mouth, chewing with relish. "Oh, man. Tastes kinda like a maraschino cherry, only, you know, actually good."

I roll my eyes and swat her hand away before she can snitch another one. In a mixing bowl, I whisk the eggs with some sugar until they are frothy and pale, or at least as far as I can judge by the blue-white light of the small camping lantern on the counter. Stirring in some milk, a splash of vanilla extract and a scoop of flour until the batter just comes together, I pour it over the cherries and put the lid on the pot.

"Um. This might be a dumb question, but how are you going to bake that? The ovens are electric. Don't tell me — you're going to build a fire by rubbing two wooden coat hangers together."

"Matches and dryer lint for tinder would be a bit more efficient," I say wryly. "Fortunately for us, we have a grill."

Which reminds me that it still needs to be preheated — and under these conditions, it will take extra time to come up to temp; I berate myself for not having started it earlier. The wind literally takes my breath away; despite the scarf wrapped around the lower half of my face, breathing is actually somewhat painful. Instantly my eyes are squinting and watering, the thin tears freezing their tracks to my skin. Scuffing through the snow to clear a path, I raise the lid on the grill and turn on the valve at the propane tank. Turning one of the burners to high, I press the auto ignition button to light it, then turn on the rest of the burners and close the lid again.

I rush back to the living room, propelled by the wind swirling at my back. Quickly stomping snow from my boots and shaking it out of my hair before it can melt, I shut the sliding glass door behind me and shiver out of my hat, coat, scarf and gloves, leaving them piled on a nearby chair before heading back to the kitchen. "Brrrr! I think the inside of my nose is frozen!"

"Snotsicles are the worst. I do _not_ miss that about Minnesota," she says absently, still tapping at her phone. "Score! The Guptas on the eighth floor have Hershey bars and marshmallows. Thank goodness for families with little kids."

"Aren't marshmallows made with gelatin? And anyway, how did they even know you were looking for them?"

"I posted a notice on NextDoor. Everyone in the neighborhood is online, probably because there isn't much else to do right now." She arches her eyebrow and flashes her most audacious grin at me. "For those not lucky enough to be snowed in with the world's hottest and most insatiable immunologist, I mean. Anyway, the Guptas are vegetarians and they say the marshmallows are vegan. Be right back." Swiftly she kisses me, then dashes off for the emergency stairwell.

While I am washing my dishes and utensils, I contemplate ideas for the ingredients I have on hand, starting with the things that will need to be used up first. Cosima jolts me out of my reverie, coming in panting and heavily laden with a large canvas shopping bag that is emanating a mouthwatering combination of scents. My stomach growls emphatically, reminding me that I have not eaten anything since our pancakes this morning. "Dude," she says, setting the bag on the counter, "Mrs. Gupta is the bomb-diggity. I think she's cooking for, like, the end of days. She wanted us to come downstairs to eat with them, but when I declined, she started shoveling stuff into containers. I have no idea what most of this is but it smells _awesome_."

I poke through the bag, setting aside the chocolate bars, a bag of marshmallows and a brown paper packet of thick grilled flatbreads to open a random container. Immediately the kitchen fills with the delicious scent of curry. "Eggplant," I say, training my flashlight on the contents. "And this one is potato and onion." A small grease-spotted paper bag yields a pile of craggy golden brown little deep-fried morsels, flecked with green and still sizzling hot. "Ooohhh. Here, I think you'll like these, they're called pakora." I take one and hold out the bag to her. "There's usually some kind of — ah, here we are. Try dipping them in this." Swiping my pakora through the tamarind chutney, I savor the sour, slightly sweet crunchiness that cuts through the rich oiliness of the chickpea flour that makes up the crispy coating and the yieldingly tender insides, studded with bits of cauliflower, onion and spinach.

"Holy shit. That's incredible."

Kissing her, I lick a bit of the chutney from the corner of her mouth and smile. "I guess that answers the question about what we're having for dinner. I'm going to put the clafoutis on the grill. Go ahead and start, chérie, I won't be long."

Leaving her to set out and open containers on the bar, I wrap up again and dash back out to the terrace. By now the grill is hot enough to have melted the snow around it, leaving it surrounded by an island of wet bare concrete; snowflakes sizzle against the stainless steel surface and evaporate instantly. Placing the pot on the center of the rack, I note the time on my watch and close the grill's lid.

When I return to the kitchen, Cosima is perched on a barstool happily sampling a small yellow steamed cake topped with what looks like mango athanu and garnished with bits of something bright green. "Thish is amazing," she says with her mouth full.

I sit on the stool next to her. Eagerly I tear off a piece of the flatbread, which turns out to be made of millet flour, and use it to scoop up some of the eggplant curry, adding a little pile of dal. "Mmm... "

The curry is redolent of freshly toasted spices, warming rather than searingly hot, and intensely flavorful. I go to the free-standing wine cooler in the pantry and grab a bottle of an Alsatian Pinot gris, returning to the bar and pouring liberally for both of us. Making an appreciative little noise as she takes a sip, Cosima kisses me gently, then turns her focus back to pillaging the contents of the containers. Too hungry to cavil about manners, I find myself diving in just as eagerly.

The food and wine disappear in a disgracefully short time. Mentally I make a note to think of some way to thank Mrs. Gupta for her generosity. Cleanup goes quickly, as all we have to do is rinse the containers and put them in the dishwasher to run later, then wipe down the bar. Sitting in replete contentment and sipping a cup of faintly sweet and nutty Dragonwell tea, I watch as Cosima re-steeps the leaves in her little yixing pot, this one shaped like a rounded lily pad with a tiny frog on its lid, and pours a cup for herself.

Cell service is still working, though the connection is slow. I send a text to Scott to make sure the backup generators are running and constantly monitored, and tell him to have my assistant send to the lab any food and necessary supplies he wants tonight. Verifying that my battery is almost fully charged and that I have a couple of extra power banks at hand, I set the phone aside.

Checking my watch, I kiss her swiftly. "I'll be right back, chérie."

Heat waves are palpable around the grill; the wind has almost completely died down and being out on the terrace is actually quite pleasant now. Carefully I remove the pot's lid, sniffing appreciatively at the scents of vanilla and warm sugar and the hint of almond. Closing the grill again with the pot uncovered to let the top of the clafoutis brown for a bit, I am mildly surprised to find Cosima standing next to me.

"Sorry, babe, didn't mean to startle you." She sets a small bag down on a nearby table after clearing off its snow-mounded top with a swipe of her coat sleeve. Leaning back into my embrace, she looks around at the improbable fairy-tale landscape of the darkened city thickly blanketed in white. Only a few tiny flurries are falling now; the black velvet dome of the night sky, usually tainted by light pollution, is pierced by the blazing brilliance of millions of stars. No vehicles or pedestrians intrude to mar the illusion that we are alone in our little world. "Beautiful," she says softly.

"Yes," I say, turning her around and claiming her mouth again, "you are."

Her teeth flash in the darkness.

By now the clafoutis is nicely puffed, and I can easily imagine the deep golden brown of its surface. Covering the pot again and moving it off to the side to let it slowly cool, I start to turn off the burners but am stopped by her gloved hand on my wrist. "Hang on, just a minute?"

Fetching her bag, she pulls out a pair of disposable wooden chopsticks from a takeaway order and separates them, handing one to me. Setting a Speculoos on the very edge of the grill and placing a square of chocolate on the cookie, she shows me how to spear a marshmallow and hold it over the flame, turning it to toast it evenly on all sides. Once it is nicely browned and just barely clinging to the chopstick, she deftly drops the slumping glob onto the chocolate and places another Speculoos on top, pressing down to squish the whole thing together like a little sandwich. Handing it to me, she watches expectantly as I take a tentative bite.

I am unprepared for how utterly the commonplace, unremarkable ingredients have been transformed. The deeply caramelized, even slightly burnt gooeyness of the marshmallow melts the chocolate into a semi-solid puddle, the sweetness of both balanced by the crunch and faintly spicy butteriness of the cookies. "That... is _extraordinary_." Not caring that the insides are still hot enough to scald my tongue, I greedily finish the rest, unable to suppress a moan of pleasure.

"Told ya." She grins and tugs me down into a kiss. "Mmm. I gotta admit, those little windmill cookies are even better than graham crackers." Tangling and exploring, her tongue caresses mine. "Especially when you taste them like this."

A firm thigh nestles between my legs; suddenly the grill is not the only thing keeping me warm. Sliding my hands down to cup the firm curves of her ass through the thick layer of her coat, I pull her snugly to me, holding her tightly, the communion of our mouths growing hungrier, deeper. I can feel her pulse through her swelling lips, the slow grind of her hips against mine, the hardening of my nipples against the pleasant rasp of my sweater. Never far from the surface when I am near her, arousal licks its waves of heat through my center. "Cosima," I whisper hoarsely.

"Yes, Delphine?"

"Will you make me another S'more?"

The sound of her delighted laughter is nearly as delicious as her mouth.

* * *

 _Next chapter: rubber ducky, you're the one..._


	15. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 15

"Um. Delphine, what are you doing?"

Pausing in the process of lighting the dozens of candles I'd placed around the wide granite rim of the sunken tub, I raise an eyebrow. "Running a bath. What does it look like I'm doing, chérie?"

The corner of her mouth quirks. "Are you, like, planning to boil water on the stove to heat it? 'Cause that's very 'Little House on the Prairie' and all, but it seems like more trouble than it's worth. I mean, this thing is practically big enough to do laps in."

I finish lighting the candles, which imbue the cool gray and white surfaces of the bathroom with their flickering golden light, then stand to kiss the tiny furrows above the bridge of her nose, making her glasses fog over briefly. "We have an 80-gallon standard tank gas water heater. Unlike the NASA shower, there is no need for an electrical power source in order for it to function. Thanks to you, I am sweaty and sticky and there is chocolate where chocolate has no business being. And my feet are getting cold. Therefore, I am running a bath, and I sincerely hope that you will join me."

I can't help laughing at her dubious expression that changes to one of frank surprise when she dabbles her finger into the water to verify that it is indeed hot. She sticks out her tongue at me; leaning into her, I trap it between my lips and kiss her soundly.

"Hang on a sec, babe, I'll be right back." Abruptly breaking away, leaving me panting and slightly bewildered, she rushes off, the beam of her flashlight zig-zagging ahead of her as she patters down the hall.

The enormous tub is still only partly filled. Remembering something that had come to me in an inspired moment, I go to the kitchen to fetch a particular bottle from the wine cellar in the pantry, then use a waiter's key to lever out the cork. Finding a couple of small, slender, narrow-rimmed wineglasses, I bring them and the wine to the bathroom, setting everything on the edge of the tub within easy reach.

Cosima has still not returned, so I quickly undress, dropping all my clothes except my sweater into the laundry hamper. Finally I turn off the taps, add a few drops of lavender, bay laurel and eucalyptus essential oils, then sweep my hair up into a casually messy bun before carefully stepping into the tub. Pausing for a moment to allow myself to adjust to the temperature, slowly I sink down until I am nearly chin deep in steaming, lightly scented water, leaning back with a humming sigh against the angled wall opposite the faucet. Sweat breaks out over my face as I luxuriate in the heat surrounding me.

In the unusual quiet of my flat, I can clearly hear her muttering and cursing under her breath, the occasional hacking productive cough, the metallic snick of scissors, the ripping of cardboard as she sorts through boxes in the spare bedroom that serves as a storage area for her belongings. "Gotcha!" There is the muffled sound of sock-clad feet padding over parquet, then she reappears in the doorway. An unlit joint dangles between the fingers of one hand; in the other hand she is holding a yellow toy duck that appears to be wearing a jaunty pair of sunglasses.

"What," I say, tilting my head in puzzlement, "is that?"

"'Who,' not 'what,'" she informs me. Resting the joint on the edge of a glass plate that bears one of the larger pillar candles, she places the duck into the tub and gives it a little push to propel it across the surface of the water toward me. "Delphine, meet Norbert."

Examining Norbert more closely, I note that he is made of a firm but flexible plastic that makes a faint wheezy noise when I squeeze his tummy. His sunglasses are molded into place above his orange beak; stubby wings jut out to the sides. "Enchantée de faire votre connaissance, Norbert." Setting him afloat again, I give Cosima my best come-hither gaze, beckoning her with a waggle of my finger.

As I watch, she does an impromptu striptease for my benefit, removing item after item of clothing in a comically exaggerated burlesque until she is dancing naked, her dreads swaying, her pale olive skin gleaming enticingly in the dim but warm candlelight. She leaves her glasses on the vanity counter and then wraps her hair turban-style in a towel. Stepping gingerly into the tub, her cocky grin quickly melts into a grimace. "Holy fuck, I think my feet are parboiling. Are we gonna, like, cook lobsters in here?"

"I'll have to check the traps out on the terrace to see if we've caught any first."

Shuddering at the scalding heat enveloping her legs, slowly she moves toward me. I rise up onto my knees to meet her. Nuzzling with my mouth at the flat expanse of her abdomen produces an altogether different kind of shudder and a voluptuous moan. Cupping my face, she lightly brushes her thumbs over my cheeks as I take my time licking here, nipping there, enjoying the supple feel of deep muscles shifting and rippling beneath the sweat-sheened sleekness of her skin. With my teeth I gently worry at her belly button, swirling the tip of my tongue inside the little cavity until she squirms on the verge of laughter. Trailing my fingers down the sides of her legs, I scoop water into my hands and bring it to her hips, letting it pour over her again and again in rivulets that course along gracefully defined muscle to trickle almost noiselessly back into the tub.

Ghosting kisses over the smooth promontory of her shaved mound, the scent of her arousal drifts richly to my nostrils. "Viens ici, Cosima. I want you to come in my mouth before the best taste of you washes away."

With a groan, she traces the contours of my face with her fingers, then steps closer to me, firmly settling her hands on my shoulders for balance.

Snaking an arm around each thigh to steady her, feeling the flexing and gathering of the muscular rounds of her buttocks cupped in my hands, her grip on my shoulders tightens almost painfully at the first touch of my tongue, a long slow deliberate swipe that immerses it in the first rush of her wetness. Supporting her and at the same time keeping her legs wide apart with the tensing hold of my arms, I tease out every fold and curve and crevice, tugging lightly with my lips at the rigid distension of her inner labia, circling the tip of my tongue just inside the hungrily whickering entrance of her cunt and gathering the bursting ripeness of her into my mouth.

The lower half of my face already coated with her desire, I rub my nose and chin through her silken, swollen folds, soaking myself even further. Languorously I stroke the length of her sex with the flat of my tongue, prodding at the satiny prominence of her taint, then working my way back to the delectably lovely center of her arousal. Her moans and gasps echo throughout the room, her fingers digging trenches into my shoulders as her hips pump against my mouth. Making sure that she is well braced, delicately I circle the straining jut of her clit, then slowly, firmly lick up and down either side in varying patterns and speeds before closing my lips over the slippery little bundle, provoking a hoarse cry and the sudden jerk of her hips.

I slide two fingers easily into her cunt, curling and stroking even as I work my tongue back and forth across her clit. Greedily I lap at the sweet salty musky tangy taste of her pouring thick and wet all over my mouth and wrist. Her high-pitched whimpers augment the liquid heat between my own legs, my thighs rubbing together in time with the rippling of my tongue and the fingers reaching twisting curling inside her. Adding a third and then a fourth finger, her eyes flutter shut as her walls clench hungrily at the plunging invasion, her hips and back arching toward me.

The lapping of the water against the sides of the tub echoes the wet sounds of her clutching cunt. Loving the grinding of her sex into my face, I am unrelenting with the motions of my tongue and fingers. She nearly collapses as I suckle even harder. Howls resound off the walls and hard surfaces, her legs barely able to support her as she snaps doubled over, hips bucking into my mouth, blunt nails clawing tracks into my skin, the tight rhythmic clenching of her cunt milking my fingers bloodless. Gradually her shudders slow until she is leaning heavily on me, her arms resting on my shoulders, her breath hot and jagged against my skin.

Reluctantly I relinquish my claim on her pulsing scarlet clit. My fingers still buried in the wetter-than-water slickness of her palpitating cunt, slowly I sit back and guide her down with me into the tub, settling her across my lap and holding her snugly with my free arm. Trembling in my embrace, she rests her towel-clad head in the curve of my neck. Her arms twine around my waist, clinging tightly. "Goddamn, Dr. Cormier."

Smilling, my lips slowly descend on hers, letting her taste herself all over my face and in my mouth, our tongues gently tangling together. Leaving the soft satin of her belly, I slide my hand up to settle at the curve of her ribcage just beneath her breasts, which are amusingly buoyant. Steam from the water's surface rises in wisps that drift around us. "You taste even better than S'mores."

She manages to arch her brow, squinting nearsightedly at me. "Oh, yeah?"

I nibble at her lower lip, then kiss my way down the line of her cheek and along the cut of her jaw. "Yeah," I say, mimicking her intonation. "See for yourself." Carefully freeing my fingers, I bring them to her lips, shivering as she licks and sucks the glistening thickness from them. Reaching for the bottle of wine, still cool but now sweating with condensation, I pour a generous splash of the clear garnet-colored liquid into each of the glasses, handing her one and taking a sip from the other. Rolling the lightly sweet wine around my tongue, its balanced acidity and notes of plum and espresso and raisin mingle beautifully with the complex flavor of Cosima's come still alive in my mouth.

"Mmm," she says, kissing me lazily, tasting, exploring. "That's really nice. What is it?"

"Banyuls. Think of it as the French cousin to port. Not as syrupy as a typical dessert wine. I thought it might pair well with essence of Cosima."

She smiles into our kiss. "You do know how to target your market, don't you."

"It's a rather niche demographic, but catering to it and keeping it happy is extremely important to me."

Reaching for her joint, I hold the tapered end to the center of a candle flame until it lights, filling the bathroom with a fruity, piney and only faintly skunky scent. I bring it to her lips, letting her take a long drag, then capture her mouth to shotgun the stream of her exhaled smoke, which is reminiscent of berries and warm sugar. By the time we finish the joint in this manner and the crutch has been stubbed out into a votive holder, I am pleasantly lightheaded and relaxed but still completely lucid.

Cupping one of her breasts, I tweak the taut peak of her nipple, rolling it between my thumb and my fingers. My other hand moves with more purpose, rubbing slow circles just above her bare slick mound. Moaning, she leans back against me, opening her legs in invitation.

Something nudges my shoulder. I look down to see that Norbert has come floating back. Picking him up, I run my thumb absently over the springy bumps and ridges of his beak and sunglasses, and suddenly I have an idea.

Inverting him and trapping his head between my index and middle fingers, I slide him under the water.

"Dude, what are you doing with my — ohhhhh... !"

Experimenting with different angles and speeds to bring various textures and pressures into play over the glassy and still highly sensitive topography of her sex, it is not long before she is writhing and gasping again as the changes in stimulation keep rolling her through wave after wave of release. "Fuuuuuck." Feebly she pushes my hand away from tissues suddenly much too tender to bear any contact, shuddering and quivering in my embrace, the rasp of her breath harsh in my ear.

I let go of Norbert, who bobs to the surface, propelled a little drunkenly by the ripples in the water toward the other end of the tub. Gathering her to me, I hold her closely. "Are you all right, chérie?"

Her body quakes with a fit of giggles. "Oh, I'm swell, considering that I just got violated by the rubber ducky I've had since I was a little kid. He's probably traumatized. See, he can't even look me in the eye any more." Indeed, Norbert floats against the opposite wall, facing away from us.

"Well, if it's any consolation... "

"Yes?"

I press a gentle lingering kiss to her temple. "Given the way I was holding him, he probably couldn't actually _see_ what he was doing."

" _Not_ helping, Dr. Cormier."

* * *

 _Next chapter: the real world intrudes again. How very rude of it.  
_

 _7/4/16_ _And holy wow. Just found a **massive** discrepancy in this story that I've spent the past hour or so fixing. Hope the welds don't show too badly..._


	16. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 16

"Look, I'm all prune-y."

Cosima holds up a hand, whose fingertips are indeed wrinkled from prolonged submersion. "I am, too." Catching hold of her wrist, I bring her hand to my mouth so I can press a kiss to her palm. I close my teeth over the fleshy mound at the base of her thumb, sucking just hard enough to leave a mark. Interlacing our fingers, I curl our hands loosely together. "We should think about getting to bed soon, chérie. To sleep," I add with a mock-stern glare at the naughty gleam that sparks in her eyes, which are still a little bleary from the joint she'd smoked earlier.

"Spoilsport." Tipping up her head to kiss me, she smiles.

Nibbling at the full curve of her lower lip, I tighten my arm around her waist to hold her more closely to me. "Brat."

Some of the smaller candles and almost all of the votives have guttered out; others were extinguished by a tidal slap of water from one or other of our more... strenuous moments. The remaining lit candles cast their now slightly wan glow and drunkenly oscillating shadows throughout the bathroom. Sleek and relaxed, Cosima's slender form snuggles in my embrace; thanks to the heat and humidity of the bath and the anti-inflammatory and bronchodilatory effects of the weed, her breathing is measured and even and remarkably untroubled, a far too rare state lately. Utterly content, a line from Pascal Quignard drifts through my mind: _Le silence est pour les oreilles ce que la nuit est pour les yeux..._

Which makes it all the more jarring when the real world insists on intruding again with a barrage of light and noise as power is abruptly restored. Harsh, glaring light from switches we'd turned on out of unthinking habit. Beeps of varying pitch and volume from appliances and computers waking from their extended slumber; the _whooooom_ and low roar of the furnace as warm air starts rushing once again through the floor registers; a surprisingly obtrusive subsonic mechanical rumble that I finally identify as originating from the elevator motor and cables. As if on cue, my phone starts ringing from the bedroom.

Both of us sigh at the same time.

"Damn," she says against my neck. "Guess that means we don't get to take a snow day tomorrow, huh."

Softly I kiss her forehead. "You could if you wanted to. Scott is at the lab monitoring the incubators and sequencers and running routine calibration cycles on all the instruments. There's really no need for you to be in until Duncan has the rest of his required equipment and supplies, though Rachel says that should be any day now."

"Scott got stuck at work? Poor bastard."

I decide not to tell her that he is there because I'd called him in this morning. As I'd thought, he'd been more than willing to stay. I have not checked the cameras but suspect that his gaming group is comfortably ensconced with him, enticed by the allure of uninterrupted playing time and unlimited free food and snacks. The additional incentive of something called an arcade cocktail table ( _"I'll send you the Amazon link. Could I get the four-player Pro Arcades model with the HD LED monitor and the 2000-game upgrade and the two-trackball option for Centipede? Uh... that would be awesome... please."_ ) to be delivered to his apartment next week was hardly necessary, but it was a small price to pay in return for peace of mind and to thank him for his dedication and hard work.

Carefully shifting Cosima from my lap, I brace a hand momentarily on the side of the tub to stand, then help her up, pulling her into a kiss. Her skin prickles immediately with goosebumps, though, so reluctantly I let her step out, following quickly so I can wrap her and then myself in huge fluffy towels. Fetching her robe, I hold it for her while she slips it on and snugs the tie to securely envelop herself in thick fleece. Undoing her turban, she shakes free her dreads with a toss of her head and a little grunt of satisfaction.

While I blow out candles and mop up the larger puddles of water, Cosima goes off to carry out her mysterious nightly ritual, which despite my cajoling offers of increasingly outrageous bribes she steadfastly refuses to tell me about. I quickly complete my own routine: flossing and brushing my teeth; cleansing and moisturizing my face; checking for blocked pores or any signs of impending breakouts; finger-combing my hair into some semblance of order.

The sight of Norbert facing the corner where she had set him on the edge of the tub gives me an idea. I find a roll of cling gauze in the medical supply cabinet, cut off a length and tie it like a blindfold around the little duck's head, then leave my patient near the sink where Cosima will be sure to see him.

"Dude!" she calls from the hallway. "Agnes finally had her babies! Scott says there's nine of them and she's being a good mom. They look like little wads of chewing gum — you can see the milk in their stomachs through their skin."

I can't help smiling at her excitement. Even though the NSG mice are all housed individually, the intrepid Agnes had somehow managed to get impregnated; she and her male neighbor must have performed some truly acrobatic feats in order to get to one another through the wire grids separating them. Reasoning that anyone who was _that_ determined to reproduce should be allowed to, Cosima had been hovering over the mother-to-be for the past couple of weeks, examining and weighing the rapidly expanding and increasingly pear-shaped mouse daily and making sure to give her extra treats and supplements. Pleased as she was by the diminutive adventurer's achievement, though, she did take the precaution of having Scott add solid dividers to all the cages to prevent further unplanned breedings.

By long habit I move systematically through the flat putting things to order. Sarah Vaughan's recording of "The Nearness of You" starts playing softly over the sound system. In the living room, I find myself singing along with the supple, luscious voice and its spare rhythm section accompaniment as I pick up scattered clothing and turn off lights, barely avoiding stepping on a handful of Cosima's jewelry near the fireplace.

Returning at last to my bedroom, I find Cosima curled up in one of the armchairs near the wide windows, her robe wrapped about her like a cocoon so that even her feet are hidden. Her face gathers into a slight frown of concentration as she taps at her phone; a glass of water sits forgotten at her elbow. At my entrance she looks up and smiles, that slowly unfurling incandescent smile that never fails to make my heart thrill. Over the hidden speakers, Vaughan croons the intro to "The Way You Look Tonight." My gaze locked onto hers, I hold out a hand in unspoken invitation.

Setting aside her phone, she uncoils herself from the chair and slinks toward me, instinctively fitting into my embrace and draping her arms around my neck. Without conscious thought or preparation, we glide effortlessly into a free-form slow dance, our hips undulating fluidly in perfect synchrony, our bodies pressed so closely that there is no room for even a stray word between us. Her breath flutters warmly on my neck as she kisses a soft line from just below my ear to the base of my throat, then rests her head on my shoulder.

As we sway together in easy rhythm, my hands meander slowly up and down her back, then slide down to her hips to snug them against mine. I brush my lips over the satin of her temple, taking in with my mouth the subtle fragrance of her skin. Humming along to the music, gently I tip up her chin and bend my head to kiss her softly.

Her fingers rake through the ruffled mass of my hair, trailing down my neck to ramble over the areas of my throat and upper chest exposed by the wrap of my dressing gown. Luxuriating in her touch, I deepen our kiss, loosening the tie of her robe so I can slip my hand inside to stroke the warm satiny skin at her waist. "Come to bed, chérie," I whisper in her ear.

The sheets beneath the eiderdown duvet are cool and smooth, though they warm quickly as we twine together, mouths affirming and celebrating our connection, our bodies fluent in the shared language of intimacy. At her indication, I stretch out onto my back while she lies next to me, propped up on her elbow. I have to smile at the look of absorption on her face as she delicately traces the lines of my collarbones with a single finger, dipping into the hollows, occasionally letting her other fingers just barely brush lower down. My skin seems to ignite at her touch, all but visibly glowing in her wake.

Slowly her palm roams over the slight curves of my breasts, pausing at each to cradle its weight in her hand. My nipples tighten against the unhurried caress; breath and pulse quickening, I press into her, encouraging her to knead more firmly, but still her touch remains infuriatingly subtle.

Leaning in, Cosima bends to kiss me softly. I slip my hand beneath her dreads to stroke her silky nape, sighing into our kiss as her thumb circles one achingly hard nipple, then the other. "Hey, Delphine," she murmurs against my lips. "Wanna play a game?"

The mischievous glint in her eyes and the one-sided curl of her mouth portend nothing but trouble. Delectable, mind-blowing, toe-curling trouble. A little apprehensive but suddenly intensely curious, I nod.

Her mouth finds my throat once more. Moaning softly, I arch my neck to give her free rein to roam over its length. " 's a simple game. There's only one rule: if you move, even the tiniest bit, I stop. No matter where I am or what I'm doing. Sound like fun?"

Actually, it sounds like the most fiendish kind of torture, but I nod again, letting my arms fall to my sides in exaggerated resignation.

White teeth flash in the dimness. "You get that one for free. Anything else after that... game over. K?"

Holding absolutely still, I swallow hard. "Okay."

Lips press with exquisite gentleness to the tender spot below my ear, sending a shiver through me. "Close your eyes, babe," she whispers.

Complying, though I can't help peeking just a bit now and then, I concentrate on the sensations her mouth and hands and the random brush of her dreads evoke in every nerve ending they encounter. I cannot suppress a choked gasp when her warm wet mouth closes over one nipple. Holding my breath, I wait on tenterhooks, but evidently there is no restriction in this game on any sounds I make, and so I give vent to the low moans incited by the swirling of her tongue and carefully edged scraping of her teeth that send electric jolts straight to my center. With maddening slowness, she plagues my other nipple in the same way, then nips and licks at the sensitive undercurves of my breasts. Moving lower, she maps out with soft lips and tongue the constellations that she discovers among the freckles and moles of my belly.

There is no word for the sound that rends itself from my throat when her deft fingers glide across the thickened slick surfaces of my sex, slowly stroking through the wetness, teasing the soaked curls protecting it. Forcing myself to remain still, I suck in long deep breaths as she paddles her fingertips around the hot pour from my cunt, arousal running down my thighs and soaking into the sheets. As she traces gentle patterns through the folds of my sex, over and around the thrumming swell of my clit, I have to fight to keep from grinding my hips into the elusive touch, the far too subtle pressure.

Two fingers slide easily inside me. Automatically my cunt and the muscles of my legs and thighs tighten around her, but she steadies me with a hand on the curve of my hip until I can let go of the tension. I am sure she can feel every hitch in my breathing every time her fingers reach as deeply as they can within me, then curl inward to stroke the exquisitely sensitive spot at the front wall of my cunt. Coaxing and circling, moving within me, varying the rhythm and pressure, she makes me wait on jagged breath for each touch, forcing me to concentrate on every shred of pleasure, on the unceasing tidal flow of want and need eddying through me created by my body's response to her touch.

And then she pulls out her fingers, dripping liberally with my come, and rims me ever so softly, every infinitesimal motion making me twitch with pleasure. She presses the pad of one finger to my asshole, which easily welcomes her in, its passage more than made easy by the copious flow from my cunt. Pulsing helplessly around the slender intrusion, I feel as though my entire body were reverberating with apprehension, but she seems to accept the involuntary response as being within the bounds of the game. Slowly, slowly, she plunges and twists and strokes within me, sending a continual series of little rippling writhing jolts up my spine.

By now my lungs are searing, my breath coming in harsh ragged pants, the air around us filled with the rising scent of sex and sweat and the stream of exhortations and obscenities cascading unbidden from my mouth.

With her elbows she nudges apart my unresisting thighs and settles herself between them. Hardly able to bear the heat of her breath over my sex, every molecule in my body seems to vibrate with excruciating pleasure when she sweeps her tongue through my weeping folds and then up and down and across the swell of my clit. Every beat of my pulse is palpable through the throbbing little bundle of nerves as soft lips surround it and start to suckle.

There is a kind of euphoric freedom in my unaccustomed passivity. I have no idea how long she keeps me on the precipice, but I am unprepared for the overwhelming intensity of the convulsions that rip through my entire body at last. Needing only the slightest stimulation from her wickedly clever mouth and hands to roll one thunderous orgasm into the next, I come again and again until I am trembling violently, uncontrollably, every muscle liquid with release, every bit of my skin soaked with sweat.

Carefully she frees her finger from my continually spasming ass and shifts to tuck herself half beside, half atop me, draping one leg possessively between mine. Gasping, I cling to her, still shuddering, letting my tight-shut eyes flutter open. My mouth welcomes hers, our tongues twining and caressing. "Holy fucking goddamn shit," I say in delirious wonder, tasting myself all over her face.

"Tch, Dr. Cormier. Sometimes you're such a potty mouth." Soft lips lazily tease random spots along my cheeks and jaw. "Doing okay?"

"Aside from my brain leaking out of my ears? Oh, yes."

We both dissolve into giggles when "Make Yourself Comfortable" starts playing overhead. When the song finishes, I manage to turn off the sound system with my phone before drifting deliciously to sleep, clasping my arms around the small drowsily heavy body melded to mine.


	17. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 17

I awaken well before my alarm is set to go off. Mentally I am remarkably alert even though my limbs feel almost drugged, my whole body hung over with the aftermath of gloriously excessive pleasure. Out of habit I reach out a hand, but as on most mornings, the sheets on Cosima's side are empty and cool. After indulging in a huge yawning stretch, I roll groaning out of bed to shuffle to the bathroom, noting thankfully that the floor is warm underfoot again.

Not bothering to put on my dressing gown, I plod naked over to the wide French doors that lead to the balcony, taking in the sharp outlines of the buildings downtown and the clear bright sky of what promises to be a gorgeously sunny day.

And blink.

Rubbing my eyes, I verify that I am not imagining the penguin perched on one of the small side tables.

About half a meter tall, sculpted solidly out of snow that she had obviously scooped off of the chaises, the little penguin seems to salute the sunrise with its beak held high, stumpy flippers splayed out to the sides to show off its proudly plump chest and belly. Indentations cleverly carved into its face create shadows deep enough to give the impression of eyes, and the whole sturdy creature rests on a base neatly shaped into wide, stylized feet.

Slender arms slip around my waist from behind. The soft press of her breasts and the warmth of her body are delicious; I shiver pleasantly at the feel of her cashmere sweater against my skin. She feathers a kiss between my shoulder blades, followed by the nuzzle of her cheek. Her fingers trace lazy circles over my stomach. "Morning, babe."

I smile, leaning back against her and playing my fingertips along the lightly grooved muscles of her forearm. "Good morning, chérie. You've been busy, I see."

Warm air gusts over my back as she chuckles. "Just a quickie I made when I went out to smoke earlier. The snow's really fluffy. Probably would have been too cold and dry to pack together last night, but when the sun hit it, it softened just enough to be the perfect texture."

"It's beautifully done. I knew you were a woman of many talents, but this was an absolutely delightful surprise. What kind of penguin is it?"

"An Adélie — see his long tail? Had to do one of the smaller species. Wouldn't have had enough snow for an emperor unless I shoveled up a bunch from the floor. Besides, I was freezing my ass off out there."

Laughing, I turn in her arms, smiling at the sight of her beaming face. Automatically my hand reaches to caress her cheek, continuing its motion to slip behind her neck, kneading lazily. Pulling her to me, I bend to capture her mouth and tangle my tongue with hers. After an enjoyable interval, I decide that orange juice and weed make a strangely appealing pairing. "I love it. What, you didn't name him?"

Cosima smiles into our kiss. "It's supposed to hit almost 4° today. He'll probably be halfway melted or blown away by this afternoon, so I didn't bother."

"Shhh, don't let him hear you say that! You'll hurt his feelings and make him worry." Teasingly I pull back and press the tips of my fingers to her lips.

"You're absolutely right. The last thing we want is a snow penguin having an existential crisis." She nibbles gently at my index finger, then lets it go. Looking out through the expanse of glass, she sketches a vague salute and mimes tapping him on the shoulders with a sword. "I dub thee, ummm... Lord Algernon Neville Waddlingham. The Third. Long may you reign over your, uh, balcony table thingie."

"That's better. When introduced to snow penguin royalty, does one curtsey, or bow?"

"Neither. They may go around dressed in tuxedos, but they don't insist on formality in their interaction with us common folk."

I nip the tip of her nose. "It's probably a good thing, considering that he's only ever seen me naked."

"There is that. Hey, Delphine," she waggles one eyebrow, giving me a knowing leer, "there may not be a formal protocol, but there is a super secret handshake."

My heart beats faster. "Mmm. And does the secret handshake involve your fingers' reaching into my inner sanctum?"

Her hands slip lower to caress my buttocks. "Babe," she murmurs against my lips, "you can have my fingers any damn where you want. Allow me to demonstrate." Turning me around, she whispers in my ear, "Lean up against the door."

Bending forward, I gasp as my breasts squash against the cold expanse of glass, which quickly fogs over. I brace myself with my arms to either side of my head, gasping again at the contrast of her heated torso pressed to my back, her hips molding themselves to mine. Vaguely I register that she must have discarded her clothes in record time, and that her skin is even softer than the brush of her sweater had been. I reach an arm behind me to stroke the supple curve of her flank and the long deep beautifully defined muscles of her upper thigh even as her hands move to caress my breasts and belly. My body already reverberating with arousal, I think disjointedly that her little penguin is going to get to know me very well indeed before long.

* * *

By the time I finish showering and getting dressed, Cosima has comfortably settled herself into the long sofa in the living room. Her phone sits on the wide padded arm by her elbow; her computer rests on a throw pillow nestled on her lap. A large mug of tea waits on a warmer within easy reach on the end table. Hauntingly melodic music with a compelling beat plays softly over the sound system.

I lean over the back of the sofa to kiss her gently, lingering until I can feel her pulse through her lips. "Enjoy your day, chérie."

She winds her fingers thickly into my hair, caressing my scalp and pulling me closer. "C'mon, play hooky with me. We can entertain Lord Waddlingham — snow penguins are total pervs."

"You don't think we entertained him enough this morning?" I stroke the velvet curve of her cheek with my thumb.

"He's only got a short time to live, let him make the most of it."

I do my best to keep my reaction from showing in my face but have to wait for the ache in my chest and gut to subside before I can answer, keeping my voice as light as possible. "I have to meet with Rachel, check on Scott and get some administrative paperwork done. But I should be able to bring most of it home to finish, so I won't be gone too long, I hope."

"Gonna hold you to that, Dr. Cormier."

"I'll hold _some_ thing to you, whenever and wherever you want it," I say, mustering as much innuendo as I can to make her laugh. Catching sight of her screen over her shoulder, I wrap my arms around her slender neck and kiss her temple. "Working on your diss?"

"Yeah. I've been making some decent progress on it now that I'm done with my coursework — should be getting into final revisions soon. Dr. Hammill's pretty confident that I'll be ready to defend it by this summer."

Neither of us acknowledges the unspoken thought that if we cannot develop a cure soon, she may not be alive by the time her defense date is set.

In the kitchen I make myself another cup of coffee and fetch the macaron I'd stashed on top of the refrigerator yesterday. I feel a little bit naughty for eating it when we've already had breakfast, but not guilty enough not to enjoy it thoroughly.

I get an alert from the concierge that our street has finally been plowed and the driveway cleared. Calling for a car, I slip on my coat, gathering my briefcase and other necessary things in preparation to leave.

In the living room, Cosima has fallen into a light doze, hands still resting on her keyboard mid-sentence. I smile and kiss the top of her head softly enough not to disturb her.

Struck by a sudden inspiration, I go back to the kitchen and find an empty spray bottle, filling it with hot water. I grab my bench scraper and a quarter-sheet pan and take everything out to the balcony.

Carefully I mist the little penguin all over until a thick coating of ice forms around him. Using the bench scraper to loosen him from the table, I gingerly transfer him to the pan, freezing the bottoms of his feet to its metal surface so I can carry him inside. He's surprisingly heavy and awkward to maneuver, but I manage to bring him to the laundry room without mishap.

Opening the upright deep freezer, I quickly move the contents around until I can clear a space big enough, then set Lord Waddlingham inside.

It's a completely foolish and quixotic notion, I know. Preserving her bit of ephemera has no bearing on her own survival and she will no doubt make fun of me for being overly sentimental. But I don't care, and I find myself humming cheerfully as I take the elevator down to the lobby.

* * *

 _Just a smallish update_ _— a couple of major projects at work have been kicking my ass lately, and I'm about to get kidnapped by my wife for an extended weekend *g*. Heading into the home stretch in this story_ _— can't keep putting off the unpleasantness to come, alas..._


	18. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 18

I have still not become inured to the strangeness of what has become a slightly awkward and yet welcome ritual, having tea with Rachel Duncan in Aldous' former office to begin the day.

His "bio-energy hobby farms," as Cosima used to call them, have all been shut down and cleaned of most of the organic material. Gone are the harsh glare of their broad-spectrum grow lights, their electronic monitors and nutrient pumps and circulating fans, leaving behind only the skeletal framework of their supporting scaffolding and the faint sulfurous odor of algal decomposition; without their incessant busy-ness, the apparatus are as strikingly abstract as minimalist sculpture. The decor with its clean-lined modern furniture is essentially unchanged, but the office feels far more spacious without the distractions intruding on the natural sunlight streaming through the wide windows. That the cascading vines the hydroponics used to support are still present and slowly turning brown from deliberate neglect is a puzzle I have yet to solve.

Today Rachel has opted for a somewhat more involved process, with numerous steps that each undoubtedly have particular significance. Not speaking, as is her preference and wont at this time, I watch while she uses a small wooden spoon to scoop deeply green, balled up leaves from a dark glass jar into a small yixing teapot shaped like a slightly flattened bulbous egg, with a beautifully curved spout and a thin handle that is clearly sturdier than its appearance suggests. What little I know about the gongfu tea ceremony and its implements tells me that the teapot and its accompanying pitcher are probably genuine antiques, burnished with the patina both of old tea stains and the natural aging of the deep purple clay. In the weeks since we have been meeting like this, I have yet to see the same set twice.

Her assistant enters bearing the usual rather incongruous stainless steel electric kettle. "98° exactly, Miss Duncan."

"Thank you, Martin."

Setting the kettle before her on the coffee table, he leaves silently, neat and efficient as always.

Rachel places the teapot into a wide shallow bowl and then adds near-boiling water into it from a height until it overflows. Spooning away the bubbles and a few bits of debris from the mouth of the pot, she replaces the lid, then immediately pours out the rinsing into the two waiting porcelain cups.

The slight frown of concentration and the fastidious precision of her movements remind me disconcertingly of Cosima when she is focusing on a particularly delicate lab procedure or preparing to roll a joint. In all other respects, Rachel is different in every way imaginable from her genetic identical, although I have found that at odd moments I have to forcibly tamp down the extremely disturbing thought that I know exactly what she looks like naked.

Refilling the teapot with more hot water, she closes the lid again and pours the rinse-tea from the cups over the outside of the pot. After 25 seconds, she empties the pot into the pre-warmed cha hai, then finally serves us both.

The tea in my tiny, eggshell-thin cup is bright golden amber, with a floral, fruity aroma and full-bodied flavor that finishes with the distinct taste of honey. As I have learned, I drink it in three portions: first a small sip, then a larger sip that nearly drains the cup, then the final sip that allows the aftertaste to linger in my mouth and over my entire tongue. "That's lovely."

"Ming Xiang oolong, a speciality of northern Taiwan. The honey flavor is from secretions left on the leaves by cicadas." Ignoring my reflexive blanching reaction, she drinks her own tea, then refills the pot with hot water, this time letting the leaves steep for 45 seconds before decanting and serving us again.

Only after the leaves have been steeped three more times for progressively longer intervals and we have each drunk our five little cups of tea does she sit back on the sofa, signalling the end of the ceremony and the beginning of business. She is still upright, of course, her entire body a series of right angles. As if on cue, Martin returns to bear away the tray and all the paraphernalia, balancing everything easily on hands and forearms and whisking it away without so much as a spill or a clatter.

"How are you getting on with Aldous' notes on the Leda clones?"

I refrain from remarking that Rachel is not exactly an entity apart from that collective. Though now that I think about it, I realize that I have yet to see any of her files; suddenly I wonder if she's wiped them from his computer and resolve to look more closely into his numerous encrypted portable hard drives. "I've almost finished reading through his primary records, but there's so much personal marginalia and so many variables in his operationalization methods that it's taking longer than expected."

"Yes, he did rather have a tendency to become too involved with the lives of the subjects. I trust that all is well in Cosima's laboratory?"

"Thanks to Scott and the backup generators and batteries, yes. No complications at all, no interruption in the functioning of any of the instruments or equipment."

Our conversation continues on for some time in this same pedestrian vein. Perhaps it is because the usual internal rhythms of Dyad's daily routine have been disrupted by the snowstorm, but Rachel seems to be in no hurry to end our meeting. It occurs to me yet again that she must be profoundly lonely.

"So, Dr. Cormier. How is Cosima?"

This, too, is part of the ritual. Her concern about Cosima's welfare is no more or less dispassionate than it would be for a lab mouse's in an experiment; as always, I take care to mirror her façade of polite interest exactly in tone and expression. "She is stable. I do not think the intratumoral injection treatment had much effect, but of course even with the extra incubators and thermal cyclers, we were simply not able to culture enough stem cells from the dental pulp for a full transplant. Does Duncan have all the equipment and supplies he needs to decode his synthetic sequences?"

It feels odd to refer to her father so distantly, but as that seems to be her inclination as well, I go along with it.

"There's been some delay, but your Scott has been very helpful in obtaining the necessary obsolete computer peripherals. He says they should soon be able to cobble together a legacy system and from there to re-face the application so that it can be emulated on modern hardware."

Fortunately, thanks to Cosima, I am well versed in the art of deducing the gist of vaguely familiar jargon based on context. Just then my phone quacks.

Up goes one severely shaped brow. "That must be from Cosima." The corners of her mouth briefly curl upward but the razor-cut sliver of a smile never touches her eyes. "I'm sure you have a busy day ahead of you, Dr. Cormier. I'll let you carry on with it."

Barely managing to stop myself from snapping off a sardonic salute and barking, "Dis- _MISS!_ " — Cosima's sometimes questionable sense of humor has been rubbing off on me and exerts itself at inopportune moments — I wait till I am halfway down the hall to my office before checking my phone. _Dude. You froze my penguin?!_

Almost the only things in the deep freezer aside from the newly ensconced Lord Waddlingham and the bones I collect for making stock are her boxes and boxes of Eskimo Pies. That she has found him already means that she probably has the munchies.

I start to chide her for getting stoned again at 10:00 in the morning when she'd already had her "wake and bake" earlier. But then I think of the gout of bloody sputum I'd had to wipe from her mouth and chin after the prolonged bout of coughing that woke us both in the middle of the night. **He's too cute to be condemned to a slow disfiguring death by melting** , I send instead, locking my door behind me and kicking off my boots so I can curl up comfortably in my desk chair.

 _You are absolutely ridiculous and I love you_

 **I love you too, chérie.**

 _Get your ass back home soon, babe. I have big plans for it_

 **Only my ass? The rest of me is going to feel a little neglected.**

 _On the contrary. I have it on good, incontrovertible authority that the rest of you feels pretty fucking nice_

 **Nice? * _Nice_ *?! Of all the adjectives and descriptives and superlatives at your disposal, the best you can come up with is "nice"?**

She must be really baked, I decide, because she has no immediate rejoinder for that. I make myself a cup of coffee, returning to my desk in time to hear my phone quack again. And again, and again, as a stream of texts begins to scroll down the screen.

 _Only a few of the gajillion reasons my girlfriend is fucking awesome, by Cosima N., age 29:_

 _Because she has a bunch of freckles in the middle of her back that looks exactly like Cassiopeia. Like, Caph, Shedir,_ _gamma Cassiopeiae and Segin are all there in perfect position. You kind of have to squint to get Ksora in place, but still  
_

 _Because I can tell her my dorkiest jokes and she'll pretend that she doesn't think they're funny but I can totally tell she's laughing inside  
_

 _Because, French. She could read the DSM-5 out loud and I'd be instantly wet_

 _Because she is confident enough to tell me when some hot chick or dude is checking me out. And badass enough to make them back off with just a look. And horndog enough to kiss me and feel me up until I can't see straight and I'm so hot for her I would let her do me in public and sell tickets on pay-per-view  
_

 _Because there are like a hundred different colors in her eyes, depending on how the light hits them. I want to keep them in a jar on my desk so I can take them out and just look at them whenever_

 _Um. That last one kind of came out all Dahmer-ish and serial killer-y. No body parts in jars, Niehaus_

 _But your eyes really are amazing_

By this time I am laughing so hard I am actually crying. Before she can resume deluging me with increasingly outrageous encomiums, I quickly tap a message. **Assez,** ** **chérie**. I adore you but I really do have to get some work done, you know.  
**

 _Spoilsport_

 **Brat!**

After that, she is quiet for some time, long enough for me to log into the system and resume where I had left off in reading through Aldous' files.

 _*quack*_

I open the attached picture she has sent and nearly drop my phone. **Are you sure that's legal in this province?**

 _Quite possibly not. Wanna see what else I can do with it?_

Starting to sweat, I loosen the collar of my shirt. I strongly suspect that this is going to be a very long day.

* * *

 _One more chapter to go. Minor caveat: it's pretty much pure smut. If you've made it this far, you should know that that means it is most definitely NSFW..._


	19. When Thou Weep'st: Chapter 19

"It's so cute!" Immediately I clap my hands over my mouth in a futile attempt to contain my giggles. "Hppp!"

The expression on Cosima's face wavers between amusement and indignation. "If I were a dude," she says dryly, "that would have been, like, a total boner-killer."

Recovering, I close the space between us and bend to kiss her. Her arms wreathe around my neck to pull me in more tightly. She tastes of a hint of wine and the lazy warmth of a late afternoon nap. The redness of her lips owes nothing to cosmetics; I trace the tip of my tongue just inside the full swell of the lower one, evading her attempts to trap it. "I'm very sorry I killed your boner, but it really is cute. It reminds me of my fi — euh, one of my former boyfriends." Sliding a hand between us and trailing it down her belly, I grasp the shaft of her cock, nearly engulfing it as I stroke and squeeze it in a hauntingly familiar motion. "Hello, chérie."

Avidly she watches my hand, her hips instinctively settling into the rhythm it sets. "Hello, yourself." She licks her lips. "There's a shit-ton of advantages to being a girl. For one thing, you never really lose your hard-on."

"True." I have to smile. "But after all those outrageous sexts you've been sending me at work all day, I'm just a bit surprised that you decided to greet me with something so... petite."

Her mouth slides into a sideways grin. One eyebrow arches. "As one of my ex-girlfriends would say, I have an interior motive."

I tilt my head. "Shouldn't the phrase be — "

"Ulterior motive, yeah, yeah. Ilana was always busting out with malapropisms like that. Used to drive me crazy, but after a while I realized that a lot of them actually made a weird kind of sense."

Kissing her again, I tug her firmly to me so that her little appendage bumps against my already thrumming sex, making us both grunt. I widen my stance so that she can nestle snugly between my thighs, undulating her hips to glide slowly back and forth through copious wetness. "Mmm... that's nice," I whisper, my hips instantly moving in synch with hers. Leaning in, I graze my lips over the curve of her cheek until I reach the sensitive spot below her ear.

"Oh, yeah," she rumbles, a low, breathy sound. "Hey, Delphine?"

"Yes, Cosima?"

"You, like, literally just got home. How did you get naked so fast?'

I kiss my way along her jawline. "I may have been somewhat impatient. I _think_ most of my clothes are in the entranceway but I can't be completely sure I didn't leave anything in the elevator."

She chuckles. "That's kinda hot, Dr. Cormier."

"You," I growl playfully, nibbling and tugging at her lower lip and then letting it go, "are nothing but trouble, Ms. Niehaus."

Soft breath wafts warmly over my chest as she rests her head in the protective curve of my shoulder. Her hand roams up and down the length of my back, then steals around to cup one of my breasts, her thumb rubbing over the already rigid nipple. Bending her head, she captures the nipple in careful teeth, rolling it between her lips, chafing the pebbled areola with her tongue. Daggers of arousal dart straight to my core at the knowing touch, making my heart pound. "This kind of trouble okay?" she says, doing her best to look contrite and succeeding not at all. She gives me a flicker of an eyebrow and turns to nibble at my other breast.

Nuzzling her hair and the supremely tender skin at her temple, I gather all the elusive scents that can be properly taken in only with the mouth. I brush my fingertips over her finely wrought features, skimming her cheeks, along the sides of her slender neck, wending my way to the delicate area that barely contains her pulse at the hollow of her throat. "More than okay." My hands continue their paths, slowly exploring the length of her torso, mapping the stark and yet still graceful contours of her ribcage, the soft side curves of her breasts where she is exquisitely sensitive. Slipping down the deep indentation of her waist and past the buttery soft black leather straps of her harness, I cup her buttocks, caressing their smooth warm curves. "But I think you could use a little trouble of your own." I let go of her cock by widening my legs and propel her backward until she can lean against the foot of the bed for support. Without warning I sink to my knees and settle into the thick area rug, looking up at her with my wickedest smile. Smugly I note that her glasses are already starting to fog over. "I suppose that this was one of your interior motives?"

Her eyes are huge. Slowly she nods.

"Tch." Easily spanning the circumference of her cock with my hand, I feather a kiss at the very tip. She gulps audibly, her gaze riveted. "I must be getting too predictable if you wore this expecting me to give you a blowjob as soon as I walked in the door."

She shakes her head vehemently, sending her dreads dancing. "Not expecting," she says, her voice thready and scratching. "Hoped. But only if you wanted to."

"Good answer." Moving my hands to fondle and knead the muscular rounds of her ass, I take the small but nicely shaped head of her cock into my mouth, swirling and suckling, tasting myself all over her. With long languid strokes, I slick her entire length until she glistens. My hands never leaving her buttocks, I feel them tighten and release in time with the movements of my mouth.

Humming softly with pleasure, greedily watching her eyes burn, I sketch obscene runes with my tongue as I slowly, slowly take her deeper. I concentrate on breathing as she nudges against the back of my throat. Carefully inhaling and swallowing at the same time to get her past the corner until she completely fills me, my lips and nose press against her silkily bare mound, the mouthwatering scent of her overwhelming.

Trembling fingers caress my face and gnarl into my hair as her hips begin an infinitesimal rocking. My hands encompass her buttocks, grounding her with my touch. I delight in the feel and sight and smell of her, bobbing my head in time to meet her thrusts, shallowly at first, then deeper and faster as my throat opens to the pistoning slide of her cock driven by the increasingly powerful grinding lunges of her hips.

Urging her legs apart, I slide one hand between them, my fingers soaking themselves in her wetness. A strangled sound escapes and then her hands reflexively tighten their grip when I slide two and then three fingers easily into the churning pulse of her cunt, plunging and curling within her.

Grinning, I worm my thumb beneath the base of her cock and slide it alongside her poor trapped clit, bracing the sudden buckling of her legs with the tight wrap of my free arm. Steadily I rub the rigid swell of the plump little bundle, tormenting her with every motion of her hips and the more subtle movements of my mouth. "Oh, fuck," she whispers hoarsely as the tip of my pinky finger strokes and circles and teases her asshole, then slips just inside to tug at the spasming ring.

Her cunt pours thickly over my fingers as I ply my thumb relentlessly from side to side across her clit and wriggle tiny unpredictable pulses against the cling of her ass. Feeling the pressure build within her, I delight in the taut-strung suspense in her body and face, spurring on the increasingly frantic movements of her hips until at last she snaps sharply into me with a ragged cry. Weathering the storm of her emptying thrusts, the intoxicating scent of her release inundates my senses.

Stilling my thumb and fingers, I smile up at her around the mouthful of her cock. Her body jerking and quivering, every muscle clenching and releasing, her hands slowly untangle themselves from my hair and slide down to cup my face. Gasping, sweat streaming down her flanks, she leans back heavily against the solid footboard and sags over me to rest her arms on my shoulders, her breath hot in my ear. "Holy fucking shit, Dr. Cormier," she manages to croak weakly.

Carefully I pull my mouth off of her and free my hand, kitty-catting my cheeks against her palms as I wrap my arms under her to support her precariously wavering legs. Unable to resist, I snake my tongue beneath the base of her cock to get a taste of the incomparably rich complexity of her come warmed by the subtler scent of leather. Turning my head, I kiss the insides of her thighs softly until she is steady enough to stand. Clambering to my feet, I hold her close, claiming her lips once again. "Are you all right, chérie?" I murmur.

"I'm not sure," she murmurs back, clinging tightly to me. "But god _damn_ I feel good."

Smiling into our kiss, I rest my forehead against hers. "Bed. Now."

She manages a smirk. "So this is what sexting you at work all day does to you? Makes you even more bossy and horny than you usually are?"

"Do you have a problem with that? Because I don't remember hearing any objections while you were coming down my throat a few minutes ago. _"_

"Did I _say_ I had a problem with it? Hmmm?" Quickly recovering her aplomb, she yanks aside the duvet and scrambles into bed, handing me her glasses. Placing them on the nightstand, I climb in to lie on my side next to her. The lengths of our bodies meld together, our legs twining in gentle mimicry of the soft tease of our tongues. Letting her fingers wander over my belly, she seems never to tire of watching the play of muscle under the skin. I shiver in response, and at her unspoken request stretch out on my back and part my legs in eager invitation. "Fuck, you're so wet."

"Entirely your fault."

She traces a wide path through folds long swollen and heat-slick, reveling in the throb of my all too obvious desire. With the heel of her hand, she rubs slow circles against the top of my mound, moving teasingly upward whenever my hips surge toward her in search of more contact and pressure.

A small whining sound escapes me when she pulls her hand away.

Easing down my body to settle herself between my legs, she bends her head and inhales. This close, I know she can feel my heat, see and hear the clasping and unclasping as my other mouth beckons to her. Moving closer, she lets her dreads brush against me, making me startle lightly at the unexpected touch of cool rough-smoothness against hot skin and achingly sensitive tissues. The jolt of my hips opens me further to her; she trails kisses through the valleys between my thighs and my mound. "Tell me what you want, babe."

Squirming in frustration, I take a deep breath, the exhalation unsteady and lurching. "I want you to _fuck_ me, Cosima!"

"Your wish is my command. But," she says with a grin, "first I gotta fully appreciate this gift that you've so generously thrust into my face." With excruciating slowness she drags her tongue through the length of my weeping sex. Prodding and circling teasingly at my taint, she takes my turgid inner lips into her mouth and runs her tongue between them, making the muscles in my thighs tauten with anticipation and need.

I watch her through half-lidded eyes, my hands sliding down to wind into her dreads and trying not to dig my nails into her scalp. My hips gyrate and sway as she tantalizingly describes lazy orbits around my clit. Letting my legs fall wider open to settle her more firmly between them, I arch into the maddening exploration of her tongue as she luxuriates in every path and swell. "So fucking beautiful," she murmurs before finally fastening her lips on my clit. Almost rising up off the bed at the touch of her mouth, I flood her with wetness as she paints complex designs over me, laying claim to my pulsing center and marking it as her own. Slumping back into the pillows, my eyes flutter shut. I am unable to suppress a whimpering sound when she slides her fingers into me, stroking curling twisting as she suckles more firmly at my clit and worries at it with the teasing dance of her lips and tongue. Long-simmering tension gathers into a desperately yearning point until I shatter against her mouth and damnably clever fingers, panting harshly and screaming her name.

Helpless to do anything but ride out the shudders wracking me, the corkscrewing plunge of her fingers and the rough play of her tongue over my impossibly swollen clit set off sympathetic tremors that ripple outward and push me over the edge again and again.

Just before the sensations can overwhelm me, she stills her fingers and withdraws her tongue, resting her head on my thigh and watching me intently until the uncontrolled contortion of my limbs gentles down and I return to some semblance of myself. Sweeping back her dreads with shaking hands, I caress her face, smiling at the nearsighted squint of her eyes and the brash confidence of her lopsided grin. "Oh, my."

"Oh, yours." Smoothly freeing her hand and sliding up to brace on her elbows and settle herself between my welcoming legs, she enters me easily. Too easily. "Hmmm," she says, frowning, with an experimental swivel of her hips made more than a little slippery by the deluge of her come mingling with mine. "You sure you don't want me to, um, super-size this Happy Meal?"

Chuckling, I pull her down into a kiss. "No need. There's lots of ways to, euh, compensate. For example, if you can sit up for just a minute?" Still keeping station inside me, she manages to rear up onto her knees. I bend my legs up toward my chest, then beckon her to lean forward again so that her slender weight is supported by the backs of my thighs, at the same time tilting my pelvis upward. "Ohhhhh..."

It does not take her long to discover the highly salubrious effects of increased pressure and friction and the foreshortened angle that allows her to thrust the head of her cock against the front wall of my cunt with every stroke, especially when she hooks an arm under each leg and uses every iota of her slight strength to bear me into the firm but yielding surface of the bed. I reach up to grab the wrought iron bars of the headboard, using my grip to anchor the furious churning and bucking of my hips as they meet hers. Her entire frame taut as a bow, the peel and slap of wet skin resounds throughout the room with increasingly frenzied urgency. I cry out hoarsely when my cunt grabs her cock in the first of innumerable clenching convulsions that wrack me from the core outward, triggering her own choking juddering release. Slowing but not stopping, she continues to pulse her hips, grinding her cock into me and riding out the waves until my body goes limp even as aftershocks continue to wring through me.

"Damn, Dr. Cormier," she says, panting, quivering and runneled with sweat. "Your ex was a lucky guy."

"That's what _I_ kept telling him," I say, laughing shakily through halting gasps. Straightening my legs so I can wrap them around hers and encouraging her to drape her bonelessly heavy body at full length atop me, I draw her into a lingering kiss. My tongue gently tangles with hers, tasting myself in every contour of her mouth as our thundering hearts and rasping breath gradually become tranquil once more. Trailing my fingers up and down the sweat-cooling length of her back until she purrs, I kiss her below her ear, then nibble at her lobe with tiny worrying bites. "Ça va, chérie?"

"Oh, hell yeah." She grins at me, glancing pointedly at the interwoven helix of our limbs. "Hope you're okay, too, otherwise we're in one hella mess."

Making a face at her, I kiss the tip of her nose. "What I am is one hella useless lump right now."

"Excellent."

I pinch her bottom to make her yip. "Don't sound so smug. Oh! I nearly forgot the other reason I came home early. Sarah and Siobhan negotiated with Rachel and finally came to an agreement about Dr. Duncan. He's very eager to meet you in your lab tomorrow morning, if you like."

"Dude! Seriously?" Close to exhaustion as she is, she pops upright to squint at me. "I feel like Dorothy going to see the Wizard of Oz."

Smiling at her excitement, I pull her back down into my arms. I kiss her temple, enjoying the way our bodies fit so well together and the pleasant ache of her cock still nestled in my cunt. Carefully I brace on one arm and turn us gently onto our sides, threading my other arm between her neck and the bed and cradling her narrow shoulders. I press my lips to the hollow of her throat, tasting salt and sweat and breathing in the scent of sex that surrounds us, my muscles liquid from fatigue and the glut of endorphins surging through my system.

 _But wasn't the Wizard a fraud?_ snags in the jumble of my thoughts before I dismiss the half-forgotten memory and drift into unconsciousness.

* * *

 _That's a wrap on this one, finally! (Well, except for the inevitable nitpicking and line-editing, because I'm annoying that way... and also because I keep finding things that need to be fixed.) The storyline continues over in "So, So, Break off This Last Lingering Kiss." Thanks for sticking with me, and for all the kind words! As always, feedback is greatly appreciated!_


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